


Lessons

by appleschnapple



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Timelines, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleschnapple/pseuds/appleschnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm dies before he can fully teach his youngest daughter her magic. Leandra seeks out MageAmell!Warden's help and the Commander sends Anders to teach her cousin. Hawke and Anders meet and fireworks happen. Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

_Her daughter was a monster_ , came the treacherous thought from the darkest recessives of her mind, the part that had told her she was an idiot for running off with Malcolm, the part that still got scared when she saw magic. Quelling it, Leandra forced herself to look at her daughter, take in her big, brown eyes, full of fear and unshed tears. This was her little girl. Barely fifteen, having to deal with so much more than any one her age should have to. Always having to hide, always having to keep a distance from the rest of the village – made all the worse when the Blight had destroyed Lothering and ripped what had been their home for so long away from them.

Her little girl who'd started the fire. Carver and Garrett had responded as well as they could, running to the river with buckets and pails and doing their utmost to douse the flames, but not before most of the field had been consumed by it. Leandra looked over the ruined crops, their livelihood destroyed in a matter of minutes, and tried not to start crying herself. Crying _for_ herself, for her children, for her scared, beautiful daughter and for her husband, the man who was meant to teach Bethany everything he knew so she'd be safe. Not knowing what else to do, she wrapped her arms around Bethany and ran her fingers through the girl's hair.

“Mother?” said Garrett, and Leandra had to fight the mad urge to chuckle. Her eldest, her baby boy, the man of the house and yet so young, so uncertain... “What should we do?”

She didn't know, but she couldn't admit that. In Redcliffe they'd already had suspicious looks shot their way, a fear of outsiders as much as _what_ those outsiders could be. She could already imagine the templars at their door, tearing Bethany from her arms...

“Mother?” Garrett repeated, softly. Beside him, Carver was casting a nervous eye towards the village, all traces of cocksure brashness lost in the face of what had happened. Then his eyes widened in fear.

“We've got to go,” he hissed. “Templars.”

If she squinted, she could perhaps make out the armoured figures stepping out of the chantry, and perhaps it was for some innocent reason that had nothing to do with the smoke still billowing out over Redcliffe, but it was not a risk she was prepared to take.

“Take what you can,” she said. “Leave everything you can afford to.”

“I'm so sorry,” Bethany said tearfully as Leandra released her from her grasp. Garrett bent down slightly and pressed a kiss against her forehead.

“We'll be fine,” he told her, gently but firmly. “We escaped the darkspawn, didn't we?”

He did not mention who they'd lost on the way, the way the ogre had crushed Malcolm and thrown his body aside, broken and ruined. They all remembered. Bethany sniffed and nodded.

“Whatever happens, I'll protect you.”

“ _We'll_ protect you,” said Carver gruffly as he withdrew his sword from under the bed and thrust Garrett's bow and quiver towards him.

Leandra smiled weakly as she shoved potions and herbs into a satchel with shaking hands, and tried not to think about how she had no idea where they would go.

\- - - 

“Why Amaranthine?” Carver asked, folding his arms across his chest. They'd made camp just off of the Imperial Highway, settling around a fire that Bethany had only started with much coaxing. “Didn't it get destroyed by darkspawn?”

“From what I've heard, it's recovered well,” Garrett said diplomatically, and only a sharp eye would have detected his uncertainty. Unfortunately for Garrett's sake, Leandra had a sharper eye than any other when it came to her children.

“We have family there,” she replied, hoping it would be enough.

“I thought our family came from Kirkwall?”

“I told you before, how my cousin had a child that was taken away by the Circle?” It had been their cautionary tale – Bethany, stay inside, Carver, stop fighting with the other children, Garrett, no, you can't bring your friends home – something to instil in them just what could happen if they were ever found out. “Revka paid a great deal for her to go to the Fereldan Circle.” Leandra allowed herself a small smile of familial pride for a child she'd never met. “She went on to make quite a name for herself.”

Bethany gasped – she had always been a clever girl, Leandra thought fondly. “Our _cousin_ is the Hero of Ferelden?”

Garrett looked suitably impressed, but Carver appeared torn. “Why haven't we gone to her sooner?” he asked finally. “It could have saved us a lot of hassle in Redcliffe.”

“I didn't want to impose,” Leandra said lightly. “I'm sure she's got quite enough to be getting on with without having to deal with family she's never heard of knocking on her door. I wouldn't even be bothering her now if I didn't think it was necessary.”

“Because of me,” Bethany said, gazing miserably into the fire. Carver, sitting closest, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“What do you suppose she can do for us?” Garrett asked uncomfortably, looking almost scandalised at the idea of _imposing_. He'd been a shy child growing up, too kind for his own good, and with most of his father's attention directed towards Bethany and his mother's towards Carver he'd become almost _too_ independent, Leandra thought, a little sadly. Not so much proud, though she imagined that had a little to do with it, but afraid of asking for help.

“If nothing else, I'm hoping she'll have enough clout to keep the templars from our doorstep. I was hoping, however...” Leandra cast a sideways look towards Bethany, “maybe she could help Bethany with her magic. Or one of the other Wardens, perhaps.”

“It's not much use keeping the templars from our doorstep if we don't have one,” Carver said, unable to keep the resentment from his voice and Leandra winced. Garrett frowned and elbowed his brother sharply in the ribs.

“We'll find somewhere,” she said, trying to sound determined. “If we can just find somewhere that's willing to give us a room in advance...”

“We have some coin, don't we?” Bethany asked nervously, tearing her eyes away from the fire.

“Not enough,” said Carver, giving his brother a shove as Garrett made to elbow him again.  
“Carver and I can find work,” Garrett said, casting a stern eye over at Carver as if daring him to disagree. “We'll make do.”

“Shovelling dung, that sort of thing. Can't wait.” Carver smirked. “Who knows, maybe our famous cousin can provide bed and board too.”

“Carver!” Garrett looked horrified and gave him a shove.

“I'm joking! Mostly.” Leandra smiled, almost aching with pride – then frowned slightly as the shoving match descended into a scrap. Sometimes she really wished she'd had three daughters instead. On the other hand, Carver and Bethany had gotten into some rather vicious fights themselves over the years, so maybe it wouldn't have been any better. She sighed, and stood up to break her boys apart.

\- - - 

Solona Amell looked wearily down at the pile of papers that had accumulated on her desk, and wondered if it would really be so bad if they mysteriously burst into flames. It probably would – even if there wasn't anything vitally important in there, Varel or Nathaniel or _someone_ would notice the burn marks and look disappointed or something. In any case, with the King still giving her the cold shoulder she should probably try to appear competent, and setting fire to requests for more soldiers or supplies perhaps wasn't.

She sighed, and began working her way through the assorted letters, wondering all the while if she couldn't fob this off on someone else under the guise of delegating tasks. It wouldn't have been so bad if the letters themselves hadn't been so terribly stuffy – all wax seals with family crests and ridiculously flowery language that made her roll her eyes in disgust. She hadn't met most of the people, and most of those she had met she hadn't liked; noble types afraid to get their hands dirty but more than willing to get someone to do it.

“Commander?” Solona turned to face Varel. The seneschal looked exhausted – trying to repair the Keep to some semblance of working order had been a struggle for all of them – and Solona made a mental note to force the man to take some holiday somewhere sunny. Maybe Antiva. (She then thought of Zevran, and the look on Varel's face if he ever came across someone like Zevran. Maybe not Antiva, then.)

“Yes?”

“Someone has asked to see you.”

“It's a bit late, isn't it?” Solona asked. It had been dark when she'd come in, and it at least felt like she'd been in there for hours. “Did they say why?”

“She only said that she needed to speak with you. She claims to be family.”

Solona snorted in a most unladylike fashion. She'd heard quite enough of those claims – it appeared that everyone wanted some tie to the Hero of Ferelden, especially if it was the kind of tie that could get them gold. In her exasperation, she'd asked for her family details from the Circle, and had spent some time memorising the names for future encounters. “Really. What name did she give?”

“Leandra Amell.” Solona blinked. Either someone else had gotten a hold of the information, or...

“Send her in, please.”

“Are you sure, Commander? I could ask her to return in the morning.”

As pleasant as that sounded, Solona thought, suppressing a yawn, she probably shouldn't. “If she's come at this time of night, I would hope it is important. Send her in.”

“As you wish, Commander. Should I send her family in as well?”

Solona tried hard not to groan. This was sounding increasingly... complicated. “May as well. It'll be like a family reunion. Because those always go so well.”

Varel nodded, and headed out again at a brisk pace. Solona slumped her head down on the desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was going to take her Wardens out drinking tomorrow, she decided. They (and most importantly _she_ ) had earned it.

There was a timid knocking at the door. Solona lifted her head up again, brushing stray strands of hair out of her eyes. “Enter,” she called.

The door opened, and Solona found herself looking at a very recognisable face – she saw it most days in the mirror. Older, of course, eyes a warm brown as opposed to her green, but the resemblance was instantly apparent. Behind her stood two men ( _boys_ , really, she corrected) and a girl, almost hidden behind her brothers.

“I'm sorry for calling on you so late,” the woman said apologetically. Leandra Amell had a crisp, polished accent – something of a contrast to her ragged clothes – which made sense, considering what Solona had read of the Amell family. An old and well-regarded noble family, tarnished by magic – Solona's lip had curled in dark amusement at that. “And, well, I'm sorry for disturbing you at all. I swear, I would not be bothering you if it was not important.”

Solona was slightly taken aback by all this humility after dealing with countless nobles that couldn't quite grasp that the world didn't revolve around them. “Oh, uh, don't worry about it. I wasn't doing any important – well, I was, obviously, but nothing that can't be done later.”

“Thank you,” said Leandra, bowing her head slightly. “I needed to speak with you about my daughter.”

Solona's eyes flickered over to the girl, who blushed under her gaze. “Yes?”

“Bethany is...” The elder woman trailed off, and Solona looked at Bethany, _really_ looked at her, and took in her defensive stance, the expression that was equal parts defiant and shameful, and how many times she had seen that before.

“Ah,” Solona said as understanding dawned. “A mage.” She tried not to roll her eyes as the girl's brothers placed themselves protectively between them. “I think I'd be rather hypocritical to judge,” she said drily, but with as much kindness as she could manage. It was a tiresome, but understandable response. “Has she been discovered, then?”

“We don't know,” spoke up the eldest brother. He was tall and gangly and had, she noted, an even stronger resemblance to her than his mother had. (She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that, actually.)

“We didn't exactly want to stick around to find out,” said the other. Shorter, more solidly built, but still with the slight awkwardness of adolescence. Leandra shushed him, but Solona raised her hands graciously.

“Fair enough,” she said, with a small smile. She wished, not for the first time, that she had Leliana's or Wynne's kind of presence – warm, reassuring. As it was, she had a tendency to fumble through conversation with all the grace and poise of a drunk nug. (Leliana had been horrified, but the rest of them had spent an entertaining evening watching Schmooples stumble around camp.) “She's never been in the Circle?”

The girl's look of horror said enough.

“Right,” Solona said, “right. That makes things easier, actually. No phylacteries.” She looked up, Leandra's eyes meeting hers, and wondered if her own mother had tried so hard to keep her from the Circle. Realistically, she knew that she ought to just give them some coin, send them on their way and hope for the best. The Wardens had not been in the Chantry's good books lately, still angry over Anders' conscription and angrier still about her newest recruits from the Circle, and while Alistair and Anora had made a token effort in her defence she had few doubts that it would not be enough to keep them off her back for long. On the other hand...

Freedom hadn't been much of a concern for her. She'd come to the Circle at a young enough age that she had never known different, and it'd become home to her. She hadn't understood the other apprentices, the ones that had come to the Circle later, who cried for their mothers and found the templars so frightening. She'd rolled her eyes irritably when people talked about Anders' latest escape attempt. She'd liked the order, the structure in her life. Then, she'd gone and done some very stupid things for a very stupid friend, been recruited into the Wardens and _seen_ all that life had to offer, and finally all those complaints made sense. She _knew_ why Anders had kept escaping, why it was still the only thing he seemed to actually care about.

“We have spare rooms in the Keep,” she said finally, wondering exactly when she became such a soft touch. “They're a bit... worn, but they're fine for my Wardens, so they're probably fine for you.”

“Oh,” said Leandra, apparently torn between gratitude and good breeding. “You don't have to--”

“I'm well aware I don't have to,” Solona interrupted, as gently as she could manage. “But Amaranthine's basically full unless you have a great deal of coin, and I'm assuming you don't have anywhere to stay.”

The grimace that passed over the younger brother's face was answer enough. Solona nodded. “I thought not. And if you're really that opposed to charity, I'm sure you can help out around the Keep. There tends to always be something that needs doing. In fact,” she added, looking thoughtful, “either of you two good fighters? My soldiers could use the extra pairs of hands.”

The younger brother nodded, the other paused slightly (most likely torn between modesty and honesty) before nodding his head too.

“Are you both old enough?”

“How old is old enough?”

“Sixteen,” she said, trying not to smirk at his enthusiasm. It was... different, if nothing else.

“Then I'm sixteen,” he said, with a smile that was obviously meant to be charming.

“Carver!” said Leandra sharply. Carver's grin faltered. “He's fifteen.”

“Mother,” he groaned, but Solona had already turned her attention towards the elder brother.

“You?”

“I'm twenty,” he replied, and Solona had to force herself not to scowl at this. Twenty was far too old to be looking younger than her.

“Daggers?” she suggested. She'd seen more surprising feats, but there was something about the man's frame that implied he didn't spend his days swinging a sword about. He shook his head, and for the first time she noticed the weapons on both his and his brother's back. Obviously not quite so defenceless as she'd first imagined. “Ah, an archer. Good, someone other than Nathaniel will finally get some use out of those targets. And you are...?”

“Garrett.” He gave her a small, tight smile, in stark contrast to the look of irritation on his brother's face – and not for the first time she found herself grateful she didn't have any siblings (that she knew of, at least).

“Thank you,” Leandra said gratefully, and then frowned slightly, as though she'd remembered something she'd rather not have. “I'm sorry, but there is one more thing I need to ask of you. Lately Bethany has been having some difficulty controlling her magic. I hate to impose, but she was being taught by her father, before...”

The father who, Solona noticed, was conspicuously not there.

“I understand if you're too busy, but please, if there's any help you could give her...”

“I'm not a very good teacher,” she mumbled, but raising her hands hastily at the disappointed look on Bethany's face, “ _but_ I do have some friends who may be more capable. If you'd like to leave Bethany to speak with me, I can see which of them would be most suitable.”

And honestly, Leliana was a bad influence on her. Solona was certain she wouldn't have felt all warm and fuzzy at how immediately the girl's mood changed a year ago.

“There should still be some servants hovering around,” she continued, feeling slightly embarrassed. “One of them should be able to direct you to some free rooms.”

Leandra bowed her head, and left the room, her sons following behind her. Solona smiled at Bethany, who returned it shyly. “Now, let's get started, shall we?”

\- - - 

“We're babysitting apostates now?” Anders asked mildly, piling up his plate with food. “Not that I really have a problem with that or anything, but shouldn't we be doing... oh, I don't know, more darkspawn related things?”

“We haven't heard of any darkspawn related things in a while,” Solona reminded him, reaching across to grab her fair share of bacon before Anders could get to it (and if her fair share was most of the plate, well, it was just Anders' bad luck, wasn't it?). “I thought you'd be all for it, to be honest. It's subversive towards the Chantry. You _like_ subversive.”

“I also like kittens and shiny trinkets. Couldn't you have gotten me some more of those?”

“Ser Pounce-a-lot would get jealous, and,” she leaned over, and gave his earring just enough of a tug to hurt, “you've got enough trinkets to be getting on with. You're getting like a magpie. You're already covered in feathers.”

“I'll have you know that ladies _like_ the feathers,” Anders retorted. Solona raised an eyebrow. “You don't count.”

“Charming.”

“So, why me? Why not one of the new recruits?”

“You know, you could at least bother to learn their names.” Anders snorted around a mouthful of toast.

“Do _you_?”

“... A fair point.” She took a sip of the tea sat in front of her, cringing slightly at the taste. The cooks at the Keep were magnificent – capable of producing the huge quantities of food Wardens got through and managing to make it taste good in the process – but for some reason tea was completely beyond them. “She's interested in healing magic, for some bizarre, incomprehensible reason.”

“Yes, it's such a pity we can't all have your love for setting things on fire. Which is creepy. I'm just saying.” He drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on the table. “Still, it's nice to see someone else interested. All the apprentices at the Circle wanted to learn was how to make people explode.”

“It _is_ rather satisfying,” Solona admitted. “What, it is!” she added defensively.

“ _That_ is creepy.”

“I think she's a little scared of magic, to be honest. Her whole life's revolved around her not getting caught doing it.” She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “She probably hates templars almost as much as you.”

“I don't know, I hate templars quite a lot.” It had dampened the mood somewhat, and there was a hard edge in Anders' voice that only really appeared when the subject of templars came up. He sighed. “Look, you don't have to convince me to do it. I will. But,” he continued, with a winning smile, “if it happens to mean I get a slightly bigger stipend this month, I won't complain.”

“Truly you are an example to the altruist in us all,” Solona said flatly.

“That wasn't a no.” He dodged a piece of toast thrown his way. “Hey!”

The doors to the hall swung open, but most of the Wardens seemed far too pre-occupied in their food to take much notice (and to be fair, it would probably take a horde of darkspawn to distract them from their breakfast, and even that would be a brief interlude). Solona, however, felt this would be an ideal time to introduce the new teacher and student – and if it meant Anders was distracted enough to not notice her stealing some of his bacon, so much the better. She gestured the Hawke family over, all of whom were looking a good deal brighter for the night's rest.

“This is Anders,” she said, tilting her head towards the mage in question. “He'll be helping Bethany with her magic.” She looked at Anders through the corner of her eye, and saw that while he was looking at the new arrivals, his gaze was most definitely not on his student. As surreptitiously as she could, she stamped on his foot. Anders, to his credit, did not make a sound, but instead immediately flickered his eyes towards Bethany. Fortunately, it seemed none of the others had noticed this transgression.

“Thank you for your help, ser mage,” said Leandra, and Solona resisted the urge to smirk at Anders' look of surprise.

“I'm... happy to help.”

The rest of the meal passed with light but amiable conversation, and when the Hawkes finally excused themselves Anders was almost sad to see them go. In particular...

“I really appreciate how you spent most of that conversation undressing my young cousin with your eyes,” Solona said drily. Anders simply shrugged in an agreeable fashion. “Don't you go corrupting him now. He seems... sweet.”

“My lady,” Anders began, all mock-outrage, “I am insulted! I am as pure and innocent as the fresh driven snow.”

“... Anders, I knew you at the Circle.” Not _knew_ , as their tastes didn't exactly overlap, but...

“... Right. I am as pure as the snow after people have stepped through it a bit?”

“That's not all they've done in it,” Solona muttered darkly. Anders sniggered.

“All right, all right. Keep all corruption to a minimum.” He sighed. “You are a cruel woman, you know.”

“Your life knows naught but hardship,” she agreed solemnly.

\- - - 

To her credit, Bethany was an incredibly good student, picking up some spells with a remarkable ease and learning the ones she couldn't with good grace and patience. Anders had never really stuck around in the Circle long enough to teach the apprentices much, generally assisting or covering the occasional healing class at most, and most of them had been whiny youths who'd rather be kissing in broom cupboards or moping about the fact that no-one wanted to kiss them in broom cupboards. (And sure, Anders had his own happy memories about that sort of thing, but he was sure he'd never been so whiny about it.)

“Keep this up and I'll have them dragging you along to help patch up these idiots,” he told her, unable to keep the grin off of his face as she looked up at him, eyes practically sparkling.

“It's nice,” she said lightly. “It feels like my magic actually has purpose. Like I can actually do some real good with it.”

“My thoughts exactly. Be sure to repeat that loudly when your cousin goes past.” Bethany giggled. “But don't tell her I told you to.” Anders gave a theatrical shudder. “She's got a vindictive sense of humour.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” Bethany said, a hint of irritation in her voice. “My brother's got one a mile wide. I still get scared whenever I see toads.”

“I'm assuming you're talking about the annoying brother, there.” Bethany giggled again as she nodded with perhaps a touch more enthusiasm than necessary.

“Carver, yes. He's the only person Garrett's ever really fought with, I think. Never anything serious,” she added hastily, “but Carver gets jealous easily and I think it does Garrett some good to get to blow off steam every so often.”

Anders coughed, trying to suppress the mental image of another form of blowing off steam that came to mind.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Anders shrugged. “If I do, my parents had them after I went to the Circle.”

“How old were you then?”

“Twelve.” He heard her sharp intake of breath.

“I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that must have been like.” He suspected she could imagine all too well.

“Still,” he said, trying to get off this rather depressing note, “all water under the bridge now, right? The templars aren't going to be dragging either of us away any time soon.” Bethany looked up and gave him a rather weak smile that soon fell as her gaze returned to the floor.

“Sometimes I wonder if life wouldn't have been better for my family if I hadn't been a mage, or if I'd gone to the Circle. We've spent almost our entire lives running.”

“They probably appreciated the exercise,” Anders tried, aware as he said it that it was rather feeble.

“Is the Circle really that bad?”

Anders sighed, trying to figure out what it was the girl wanted to hear. “You're locked in a tower and constantly watched, and told it's for your own good. The Chantry comes up with a hundred rules to keep you in your place, and every time mages turn to blood magic or demons it's used to explain why mages have to be locked away, even if they probably wouldn't have turned to it if they'd had their freedom to begin with.” He shook his head. “Some of the mages don't mind. Some of them have never known anything else. But I couldn't stay there. I'd rather have died than lived the rest of my life there.” He ran his fingers through his hair, realising that his efforts to redirect the conversation away from this rather depressing topic had failed. “Luckily, I don't have to. Dead's bad.”

Bethany nodded at him, eyes wide with what looked like a mixture of fear and admiration. “I'm not sure I'd have been brave enough to run away if I'd been sent there.”

“Equal parts brave and stupid, to be honest. Tip – never try swimming across Lake Calenhad. It's really not worth it.”

“You _swam_ across Lake Calenhad?” Bethany asked, and Anders would have been a little offended at the look on her face if he hadn't been relieved she'd stopped looking so down-trodden. “Aren't there creatures living in it?”

“If there are, I didn't exactly stay long enough to introduce myself. Mostly it's just bloody cold.”

There was a snorting sound behind him that he was quite sure had not come from Bethany. He turned around to face Garrett Hawke, who was smiling good-naturedly at them both. “I have to agree.”

“Oh, Carver pushed you in there once, didn't he?”

“What? _No_. I'm sure if you ask him I clumsily tripped over my own feet and fell in.” He let out a put-upon sigh. “Tragically in my clumsiness I pulled him in too in my attempts to get out. So silly of me.”

“Mother had them sit in front of the fire for the rest of the day so they wouldn't catch cold,” Bethany told Anders, her voice filled with amusement. “They spent the entire time insulting each other.”

“Apparently I'm a jumped-up git who... what was it, again?”

“'Has the brains of a nug, the charm of a rotting corpse and the looks of a mabari that had been dropped repeatedly as a pup',” Bethany recited, grinning. “It was a bit obvious he was making it up as he went along.”

“Carver doesn't really understand that the best insults should roll off the tongue.”

“Don't let him talk to Oghren, then,” warned Anders. “He's got a bit of a talent for it.”

“That's... the dwarf with the big axe that smells like someone's set a brewery on fire?” Anders nodded. “Damn, we may be too late. Carver wanted to ask him about his fighting technique.”

“As far as I can tell his fighting technique is get drunk, get angry, swing axe at whatever the Commander points at and try not to hit the ones she doesn't.”

“... Right,” said Garrett, considering this. “I think if Carver tried that he'd get stuck after the first step. The last time he got drunk he just fell over a lot.”

“Whereas the last time you got drunk...” Bethany began, but Garrett hushed her. Bethany rolled her eyes, and mouthed 'I'll tell you later' at Anders, who tried to look slightly less interested than he felt.

“I just came over to tell you that Mother wants to speak with you,” said Garrett, the faint hint of a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Although I suppose I should probably try to rescue Carver from a future of being the village drunk.” He gave them a brisk wave before walking off, footsteps unnecessarily heavy. The moment he was out of hearing distance Bethany edged closer towards Anders, grinning mischievously.

“Last time he got drunk he stripped to his small clothes, poured ale down his front and started kissing our neighbour's son,” she said quickly. “Bye!”

Watching her head back towards the Keep, Anders let out a groan. He'd always had a particularly vivid imagination, and he figured that this little titbit was going to do little for his 'undressing Garrett with his eyes' problem.

On the other hand, it had been somewhat... informative. If he walked back to the Keep himself with an extra spring in his step then well, a gentleman never visualised someone kissing and told.

\- - - 

“I think Anders likes you,” Bethany said, folding the shirt she was holding in one swift, well-practised motion. Garrett blinked and looked up from the book he'd been reading.

“That's... good?” said Garrett, a bit uncertainly. “I'd rather he didn't hate me and the ground I walked on or something.” Bethany leaned over and hit him across the back of his head. “Ow! That wasn't needed.”

“You're not an idiot, brother... most of the time, at least,” she appended, “so don't pretend to be.”

Garrett frowned slightly and ran his fingers through permanently tousled hair. “Well, what do you want me to say?”

“Something with a bit more enthusiasm than that, for a start!” Bethany huffed slightly, as if despairing at the world and older brothers in particular. “It's obvious you like him, too.”

“Is it?” he asked, a little nervously. Maker, if he'd been making an idiot of himself these past few weeks...

“Well, obvious to me, at least,” Bethany said, her voice instantly soothing. “But I'm your sister, so I'm supposed to notice these things. It's like you're trying to impress him whenever you talk to him.”

“Great.” Garrett covered his face with his hands, hoping when he removed them the world would be a less embarrassing place where he wasn't close to getting the _talk_ from his baby sister.

“As I was saying,” Bethany continued, giving him a small nudge. “I think he likes you, so what's the problem? Go confess your feelings and then kiss under the stars or something.”

“You've been putting a lot of thought into this, haven't you?” Garrett said flatly. “I'm sorry Bethany, I don't think it would quite work out like that.”

No, more likely it would end up with both of them a sweaty heap in Anders' bed, and then several months of awkwardness where they'd try to avoid each other by any means necessary – or worse, several months of awkwardness on his behalf while Anders didn't notice or care that anything had changed. He didn't quite feel like mentioning this to his sister, though, so instead he said, “I'm not sure Anders is really interested in relationships.” _Relationships_ , on the other hand...

Bethany scowled, and stomped her foot for dramatic effect. “Then it's up to you to tame his roguish heart!”

“You've been reading Mother's stories again, haven't you? I've told you, they'll rot your brain.”

“Yes, but that's not important. The other day Anders told me that mages in the Circle can't fall in love, because the templars will tear them apart. He's just too afraid of love to commit!”

Garrett only just stopped himself from pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation – it was hardly Bethany's fault. Even if she wasn't so young, she'd had a sheltered existence. Garrett, though not exactly worldly-wise, had at least seen and done enough to know that life was seldom like a romance novel. (There tended to be far fewer heaving bosoms, and far more in the way of drunken tumbles that you did your very best to forget about afterwards - _not_ that he knew anything about that, of course.)

“I think it's a little early in the day to be talking about _love_ ,” he said, as gently as he could manage. Bethany seemed to deflate slightly, giving him a slow nod.

“I suppose.” She sighed. “Maybe I'm just projecting. It's a little lonely, sometimes.”

Garrett felt his stomach clench with guilt. They'd spent their whole lives trying to keep Bethany safe and happy, and because of this it was sometimes easy to forget that she'd never get even close to a normal life. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologise, I'm fine.” She opened her eyes wide and batted her eyelashes at him. “But, if I maybe send Anders your way, indulge me, will you?”

He rolled his eyes. “You're a pest.”

“And you're my favourite brother.”

“Did I come in at a bad time?” Carver asked wryly, dumping his sword on the table with a noisy clatter. Bethany jumped, then shot him a guilty look.

“Did I just say favourite? I meant tied favourite, of course.”

“Nice save.” Garrett looked up at his brother, taking in his flushed, sweaty face. “I hope you've just been training.”

“Of course,” Carver said, a little sulkily. “Everyone here's about ten years older than me. I heard one of the women calling me _adorable_.”

“Well, you are a bit,” Garrett said, unable to resist, and received a punch in the arm for his trouble. “All right, sorry! You're hideously ugly.”

“There isn't much else to do but train, since I'm 'too young' to join the soldiers.”

“That's not much more exciting, really,” Garret said honestly. “It just involves a lot of marching around the Keep and Amaranthine. There've been a couple of bandit attacks, but that's all.”

Carver sent a scathing look his way. “My heart bleeds for you. At least you two are actually doing something. I'm just sitting on my hands, it's driving me mad.”

“You could always try and find work in Amaranthine,” said Garrett. “There's got to be someone hiring.” Carver snorted, but didn't respond.

“You know, we should go into Amaranthine sometime, when you're not on patrol,” Bethany said, clearly trying to shift the conversation away from this uncomfortable ground. “I've heard that the Amaranthine market's nearly as large as the one in Denerim.”

“Would you be all right there?”

“Solona's told me that unless I do magic on the Chantry doorstep, no-one's going to notice – but it might be best if we go when the Wardens go in for supplies, just in case.”

“Right...” Garrett was starting to get a slightly suspicious feeling about this.

“In fact, I think Anders said he was going to restock their crafting supplies in a couple days' time.” Garrett narrowed his eyes, but Bethany simply looked back innocently.

“How much do you think it would cost for a new knife?” Carver asked, oblivious to his sister's ulterior motives and probably happier for it. “Mine's useless.”

“I'm sure it wouldn't be much,” Bethany said sweetly, still looking ridiculously self-satisfied. Garrett, meanwhile, was trying to remind himself that he loved his sister and was really far, far too old to tug on her hair.

\- - - 

His sister was a public menace, he vehemently decided. The day had started innocently enough, and if he'd somehow ended up with Carver and Bethany between himself and Anders then well, it had been completely unintentional. Bethany had watched curiously as Anders thumbed through piles of elfroot and deep mushrooms, while Carver had wandered off to stare enviously at the display of an armoury. Garrett meanwhile was just happy to not be indoors, and not be marching. (Whoever decided that marching was an appropriate form of travel for soldiers as opposed to just being unnecessarily blister-inducing could go hang, he thought with unusual venom.) In general, it had been a perfectly nice and comfortable afternoon.

Had being the operative word.

Garrett had, being ever the loving and considerate brother, watched Carver and Bethany eyeing up swords and dresses (respectively, at least – Bethany had never shown any interest in swordplay and he could only assume that Carver was uninterested in dresses), and (with a sigh that meant he was never going to afford that bow he'd seen earlier) gave each of his younger siblings a handful of coins. Carver had grinned at him and barrelled off towards the nearest smithy, and Bethany had thrown her arms around him (so really, that had been worth it) and wandered over to a stall already surrounded by a crowd of women.

He had not, however, considered that this would leave him alone with Anders, and after Bethany's wonderfully enlightening comment about him trying to impress the other man he was feeling distinctly uneasy about making conversation.

“That was nice of you,” Anders said.

“Mm,” he replied, and wasn't that articulate and _not awkward in the slightest_. There was a slightly uncomfortable pause, practically begging to be broken. “So... how long have you been a Warden?”

“A few months now, but it feels longer.” Anders cast him a wry look. “Why, are you thinking of a career change?”

“Maker, no,” said Garrett. The other night he'd stayed up with some of the other soldiers and a group of Wardens as they shared stories, and he was fairly sure he'd spent almost the entire time with his mouth agape. “That's... a little too much excitement for me, I think.”

Anders snorted. “You get used to it. Fight enough darkspawn, undead and miscellaneous things with too many legs and the excitement wears off fairly quickly.”

“I've had quite enough of all of those things already.” Part of Redcliffe's militia, badly equipped and facing rotting corpses that were twisted abominations of the people they'd once been... He tried not to shudder (and then felt embarrassed as he realised he _was_ trying to impress Anders).

“Really?” Anders looked impressed. “I don't think I came across any of them before I joined. Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.”

“You're not happy being a Warden?”

“It has its ups and downs like everything else. Just don't tell your cousin I said that. Complaining is a good way to get stuck with the more unpleasant jobs.”

“Like teaching annoying baby sisters magic?” Garrett asked loudly, spotting Bethany approaching out of the corner of his eye, clutching a wrapped package tightly to her chest. She rolled her eyes.

“My ears are burning.”

“Did you set your hair on fire again?”

“I've been there,” said Anders with a sympathetic wince. Bethany stuck her tongue out at Garrett, who was mentally debating if it was worth back-tracking. Probably not.

Carver emerged, holding a sword that at least looked far too big for him but looking much too happy about it for Garrett to comment. (At least until later that evening – preferably once he'd put the sword down.)

“Oh, Carver!” said Bethany, gently slapping her palm against her forehead. “We haven't gotten that thing Mother wanted.”

“What?” Carver looked up from his newest purchase, confusion written across his face.

“You remember! I told you about it last night.”

“Oh! Oh, _that_.” Carver looked less than thrilled with the reminder. Bethany none-too-gently hooked her arm around the crook of Carver's elbow.

“We'll be back soon!” she said in saccharine tones, before frog-marching her twin briskly away. Garrett stared as they went, wondering if his sister had been possessed by some newly discovered Annoyance Demon – and immediately felt guilty for the thought.

“Well,” Anders said simply, crossing his arms across his chest. Garrett found himself noticing that the man actually had very nice arms. (And wrists, and hands and by the Maker was he really appreciating _hands_ now?) “Are we going to discuss the latent sexual tension between us?”

According to narrative expectations, Garrett should have been drinking something and spat it out in shock. As it was, he was not drinking anything and instead found himself just gaping rather stupidly. “ _Discuss_?”

“So, that's the part you object to. Interesting,” Anders practically purred and really when had this day gotten so uncomfortably _warm_ , he could have sworn it'd been mild earlier but never mind because right now he should really concentrate on closing his damn mouth. Which he did. And then realised he had to open it again to respond.

“I think I was hoping that if I just ignored it, it would go away,” he said weakly, and _honestly_ , Anders' smirk ought to have been illegal or at least heavily regulated.

“There are much better ways of dealing with it, I find.”

“Speaking from experience there?”

“The Circle does teach you a few things,” Anders said, and then still with that smirk on his face pinned Garrett against a nearby wall. He'd barely had time to react before he felt Anders' mouth on his, hot and wet and _Maker help him_ that tongue – he moaned into the kiss, letting his hands grip Anders' face as he – and Anders pulled back, looking perhaps a little ruffled but otherwise unaffected, and raised his eyebrows at him. “That, for one.”

“How does _that_ help matters?” Garrett asked hoarsely, coughing slightly as if to clear his throat.

“More of a taster session, really.” Smoothing down non-existent stray hairs, Anders turned to where Bethany and Carver had walked off to. “Shall we go catch up with them then?”

“I...” Garrett trailed off, more than aware that he wasn't quite capable of coherent thought. “Yes. Sure.”

“Right,” said Anders, and humming tunelessly to himself started walking, with Garrett trailing behind and willing the world to start making sense again.

\- - - 

“You're in a good mood,” Nathaniel observed, he, Anders and Sigrun sitting around a table as they sorted out rosters and the kinds of paperwork that Anders was fairly sure was the Commander's job to deal with. (In actuality, Nathaniel had volunteered them for the job after catching a glimpse of the Commander's desk – or rather, _not_ catching a glimpse as it was hidden behind the mounds of letters and scrolls.)

“Am I?”

“You _are_ smiling way too much considering what we're doing,” Sigrun said, scowling down at the sheet in her hand. For the first time, she kind of regretted learning how to read.

“What? Who wouldn't be delighted to,” Anders looked down at the letter in front of him, “help Bann Franderel with his wolf problem?”

“I'll put you down for it, then,” Nathaniel said drily, making as if to write his name on the roster.

“No, no, it's fine. Best to teach the new recruits the importance of … ah, pest control.”

“Maybe it's best to send you along to make sure the lesson sinks in properly.”

“You know,” Anders began scathingly, “I think I preferred it when you didn't pretend to have a sense of humour.”

“I don't,” Sigrun said with an appreciative grin. Anders screwed up the Bann's letter into a ball and flicked it towards her, which she effortlessly knocked out of the way. “Oh, not so respectful of his request now, are you?”

“To be fair, Bann Franderel is a bit of a...” Nathaniel trailed off, his apparent dislike for the man conflicting with years of good breeding and etiquette lessons.

“Tit?” Anders suggested.

“Ass?”

“Bastard?”

“Nug-humper?”

“I love that phrase,” Anders said. “Pity it would sound kind of stupid if I tried to use it.” Nathaniel rolled his eyes.

“I was going to go for 'idiot', but yes, I suppose those work too.”

“So, why are you so happy?” Sigrun asked, obviously pleased with a distraction from the paperwork. “Did Ser Pounce-a-lot kill his first mouse or something?”

“Ser Pounce-a-lot is a vicious attack beast who has killed many mice,” Anders said sternly. “And why shouldn't I be happy? The sun is shining--”

“The sun set hours ago.”

“The sun _was_ shining, the templars aren't going to drag me away any time soon and I'm in your wonderful company. What could be better?”

“He's being evasive,” Sigrun noted, and Nathaniel tilted his head slightly in agreement.

“Can't I just be happy without having to justify it?” Honestly, Anders had the worst friends. (Except when it came to not letting him get sliced in half or made into a human pincushion or what have you, they were pretty good friends to have then. On the other hand, he was a good friend to have when _they_ were injured in the aforementioned ways, so it probably balanced out.)

“Nope. Have you slept with him yet or something?”

“... _What_?”

“You haven't been subtle,” Nathaniel told him, not even bothering to look at Anders as he skimmed through another letter. Anders opened his mouth to protest – and then shut it again. He had been slightly more... forward the past week after finding out that Garrett was at least receptive (and all right, maybe he had gotten bored and started kissing the man in a hall way, but it had been _mostly_ deserted), and he had pointedly left the door to his room slightly ajar at night, to no avail.

“We've been taking bets and everything, on how long it'll take.”

“Wh-- he's been here a month!” Anders wasn't quite sure why he felt that was important, but it seemed like an easier thing to bring up than the fact that people were making bets on his sex life.

“I know, some people have already lost their money.”

“I thought Oghren seemed a bit annoyed with me today...” Anders said slowly, still trying to figure out if he should be angry, offended or _flattered_. “Wait, have you two bet on it?”

There was a telling silence.

“Maker, my life.” Sigrun patted his shoulder.

“I didn't want to say anything, but if you feel the urge in say, a couple of weeks time...” She leaned her head to one side thoughtfully. “Assuming you haven't already.”

“I – no.” Anders shook his head in mixed exasperation and, oddly enough, fondness. “Do the Wardens really have nothing better to do with their time? In war, victory, in peace, vigilance-and-betting-on-people's-personal-lives?”

“It's not exactly what I signed up for, but it'll do,” Sigrun said lightly. Anders laughed, equal parts humour and bewilderment, and then froze as a terrifying thought occurred to him.

“Has the Commander said anything?” Solona had been spending quite a lot of her free time with her newfound family recently, and he wasn't quite sure if he'd want to deal with the Warden-Commander being overprotective – and he wasn't exactly reassured when Nathaniel and Sigrun shared a look.

“Only that if you hurt him, she'll shatter you into a thousand tiny pieces,” Sigrun said, and then shrugged as Anders made a noise of alarm. “Her words, not mine.”

“I'm not _actually_ a monster set out on breaking hearts,” he protested. “I'm just offering people a good time. It's practically a public service.” He nodded his head towards Nathaniel. “I mean, you enjoyed yourself, didn't you?”

It was quite entertaining to watch – Nathaniel's pale skinned flushed brilliantly before he carefully lowered his head down, forehead resting against the table. “Thank you for sharing that,” he muttered witheringly.

“Oh, don't worry, I knew,” Sigrun said, her voice soothing. “My room's right next to yours.” Nathaniel made a strangled noise.

“I don't think that makes it any better,” Anders murmured, and gestured towards the door. “Might be best we leave him to it.”

They got up, and Anders made his way to his (sadly) empty bedroom, save for a cat sleeping happily on a set of neatly folded, just-washed robes – which meant they'd be covered in conspicuous ginger cat hair next time he wore them.

He made sure to leave his door open just a crack. Just in case.

\- - - 

This had been a bad idea, Garrett decided. Not that that was such a huge surprise – he'd certainly had enough doubts when he'd been invited out drinking, but he'd gotten to know some of his fellow soldiers well enough that it seemed rude to decline their offer. He might have been a bit more willing to say no if he'd known a group of Wardens were tagging along, the Commander and _Anders_ amongst them.

He'd only hoped that maybe he could handle his alcohol a little better than the last time.

And, on the whole, he had. The problem was that while last time he'd managed to get drunk off of a few mugs of ale, this time he'd ended up drinking a considerable amount more – courtesy of a few _ridiculous_ drinking games and an overly generous cousin/Warden-Commander who'd bought several rounds of drinks to general cheer and merriment.

The Commander in question was currently curled up in one corner, sleeping under an assorted pile of coats and cloaks. (Part-way through the evening she'd dissolved into a fit of tears and started wailing something incomprehensible – though judging from the total lack of reaction this received from everyone apart from Garrett it was apparently a regular occurrence.) On the other hand, his cousin not being conscious was probably a blessing in disguise, as terrible as that was to think.

Anders had wandering hands.

He grunted, and pulled a particularly adventurous hand out of his breeches. Anders looked up and frowned at him, as though he'd just kicked his cat or something. (That probably wasn't a very good example, actually – if someone had kicked Anders' cat he'd look considerably angrier and far more prepared to throw a fireball at them.) And later, Garrett would have to try and figure out why that line of thought lead to him kissing Anders forcefully and spilling his drink over himself in the process. He could _feel_ Anders smirking underneath him, and pulled away at the sound of wolf-whistles coming from behind. “Why do you do this to me?” he asked lowly, the taste of ale and Anders still on his lips. Anders just raised his eyebrows, and Garrett had to fight the mad desire to _pout_.

“I think in this instance you're doing it to me,” Anders replied. “As for the other times, maybe I'm just irresistible.” The last word came out slurred, and Garrett chuckled quietly.

“You're drunk.”

“Mm... so're you. Point being?”

“Point being...” Garrett trailed off, unsure what the point was. “Point being, you're awful.”

“I have it on good authority I'm actually rather good.” He gestured around the room. “Just ask anyone.” Garrett scowled, and poked a finger against Anders' chest.

“That's the problem! 'S stupid. Shouldn't want this.” He let his hand run along the other man's arm, feeling the strong, tense muscle underneath. “But I do.” Anders leaned over, his breath hot against Garrett's ear.

“I did buy a room earlier...”

If Garrett had been thinking clearly, he might have said something pithy and witty like 'incorrigible', or 'should I even be surprised?'. On the other hand, if he'd been thinking clearly he probably wouldn't have nodded and all but dragged Anders up the stairs.

After all, there was only so long you could fight inevitability.

\- - - 

The door was barely shut behind them before Anders pushed him against it, rocking his hips against Garrett's, the friction almost agonisingly perfect. He let out a dry-sounding moan and Anders took the opportunity to cover his mouth in a hungry kiss, a contrast of the soft lips against his and the firm pressure behind them. He let his fingers run through Anders' hair, undoing the tie and letting the blond hair fall loose. His hips bucked, and Anders broke their lips apart, his eyes dark and hooded.

“We're both wearing too much.” Garrett nodded wordlessly and all but ripped his tunic off, glad he'd chosen to forego his armour, removing his breeches at a similar speed and trying hard not to frown at a still very-dressed Anders. The other man's hands (long and thin and _strong_ hands) were making deft work of the numerous clasps, but not nearly fast enough for his liking.

“Why do you wear these things?” he said, undoing one of the clasps and feeling the strong lines of Anders' chest underneath his fingers. Anders grinned and with unnecessary flourish yanked the robes over his head and threw them aside.

“Would you believe me if I said convenience?” Garrett snorted as Anders grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto the bed and then stopped suddenly, looking at him thoughtfully and perhaps a little nervously. “You have done this before, right?”

Garrett scowled and positioned himself so he was lying on top of Anders, his own body pinning the mage's beneath him. “ _Yes_.” He crooked his head slightly, and began kissing Anders' neck roughly, letting his teeth gently scrape against the exposed skin and only encouraged by the appreciative groan he got in response. He felt a hand trailing down his chest, gasping as Anders took him in a firm grasp and moved in firm, brisk strokes, already half hard. He let his hips rock against Anders' again, letting out a keening noise as Anders slowed to a pace that left him almost aching.

“Good to know,” Anders murmured. Garrett lowered his own hand onto Anders' growing hardness, trying to mimic the rhythm of Anders on him and feeling the other man's racing pulse beneath the tips of his fingers. He exhaled deeply as Anders released his grasp.

“Do you... have anything?” Anders just shook his heading, grinning faintly, and lifted one hand that seemed to glow with light.

“You forget I'm magic.” Garrett gasped as suddenly slick fingers worked against him, leaving him groaning into the touch, pressing himself against it. He could feel the tip of Anders' cock, slick with oil and precum and hot to the touch, the slight but stinging pain as the other man entered him tapered with the sense of fullness it left in its wake. He moaned loudly, Anders' cries echoing his as they both moved with the desperate desire for release – moans quieting to heavy and frantic gasps as they came ever closer, one of Anders' hands clasped tightly around his waist, the other still teasing him with slow strokes along his length.

Finally (and yet far too soon), with one last arch of Anders' hips he came, Anders' own release only moments later, leaving them both sweaty, sticky and deliciously satisfied as Anders pulled out, pressing a kiss between Garrett's shoulder blades. Too exhausted to move, they lay like that until sleep claimed them both.

\- - - 

Anders awoke, his sleep blissfully undisturbed by nightmares (and Maker, it'd been a while since he'd last been able to think that) and slightly – but _nicely_ \- sore, even if it was more due to the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in rather than the activity before hand. The headache was rather less nice, however, but he supposed it was at least a fair exchange for last night. He stretched out as best as he could, trying not to wake the person lying next to him. He shifted, so to get a better look at the other man in the dim early morning light.

Damn. Garrett Hawke was still distractingly attractive to him. Not necessarily a bad thing, of course, but it did mean that unless Garrett was inclined towards future... excursions this encounter had done little to _relieve_ tension. Anders started slightly as he began to stir, and hastily looked away so it didn't look like he was watching him sleep. Even if he (kind of) had been.

Fortunately, it seemed that Garrett had bigger (or at least more painful) things on his mind, as he almost immediately frowned and clutched at his head, his eyes still tightly shut. “Ugh, Maker...”

“Not quite.”

Garrett seemed to freeze in place before tentatively opening his eyes, wincing as he did so. “At least that saves me asking what I did last night.”

“Always a good idea to look on the bright side, I find.” And all right, maybe Anders was being needlessly obnoxious. It just helped not to give the wrong idea. “This is a little awkward, but, ah, you do know this didn't _mean_ anything, right?” he said, rushing slightly to get the words out. Clumsy and more than a little callous, but effective nevertheless.

Garrett flushed crimson, but to his credit did not seem particularly surprised. “I know,” he said, a little too quickly. “I didn't think... I know.”

“Nothing against you, of course,” Anders began, feeling slightly guilty despite himself, “it's just...”

“No, no, it's fine. I get it.” An uncomfortable silence filled the air between them.

“I mean, if you ever want to do this again--”

“No, I – I think it's probably for the best we don't,” Garrett said. He propped himself up on his elbows, pulling the unmistakeable grimace of someone fighting back a wave of nausea, and awkwardly got to his feet. Anders tried very hard not to ogle Garrett's very naked form as he stepped across the room to retrieve his clothes – it seemed a little inappropriate – and saw the other man frown as he inspected his shirt. “Oh... that's not good.” Apparently he _had_ managed to tear it in his haste last night, a rip descending from the neck and exposing more of his chest than was generally considered polite. (Anders did allow himself a furtive look at the man's collarbones; yes, still gorgeously well-defined.) “This was stupid. Not,” he added hurriedly, “that I didn't enjoy it. I did. A lot. But now I've got to go home and deal with mostly well-intentioned but incredibly nosy siblings before I head off for another round of marching around farms, all the while feeling like I'm about to vomit.”

“I can help with that last part, at least,” Anders said weakly, and scooping his satchel up from the floor began to rummage through it. “Chew on this.”

Garrett took the elfroot gratefully, and after a few seconds already looked a good deal less queasy. “Have you seen my boots?”

“I think you lost those before we even got started. They're probably downstairs somewhere... unless they've been stolen.”

Garrett groaned and, alarmingly, slammed his head against the wall – which, Anders imagined, would have done nothing for his headache. “Sometimes I think my life is just the Maker's way of amusing Himself.”

“I think everyone feels like that sometimes,” said Anders, in what he hoped was a consoling manner. Either it wasn't, or it had been the wrong thing to say in the first place, judging by the uncharacteristically frustrated noise Garrett made in response.

“I try to do the right thing, be a good person, protect my family and that should be enough, but then I go and do something stupid like _this_.”

“Well, you're allowed to make mistakes sometimes.” Anders was quickly finding himself deeply uncomfortable with where this conversation was headed, and was fairly sure he was listening to something the other man would have much preferred to keep to himself.

“I can't _afford_ to.” Garrett scrubbed at his face with his hand, before lowering it again, smiling self-consciously. “Sorry. I think I'm still a bit drunk. Forget I said anything.”

Anders, unsure if he was morally obliged to press further, nodded uncertainly. “For what it's worth, sorry for adding to your pile of bad decisions. Not that it's a big pile!” he added hastily. “Or even really a pile, maybe just a handful.”

To his horror, this just seemed to make Garrett look even more miserable. “Why couldn't you have been a bastard? It'd make things a lot easier.”

“You just don't know me well enough,” Anders said, mentally adding this to his growing pile of 'things I probably wasn't meant to hear'. “But I'll try harder next time. Not that there's going to be a next time.”

“There wasn't even meant to be a first time,” said Garrett wearily. “Knowing my luck, there probably will be a next time.”

Unable to keep the offence out of his voice, Anders said sharply, “I'm sorry this was so hard on you.” He immediately regretted it. Garrett's expression shifted slightly, for the first time looking genuinely upset rather than just full of self-pity.

“Maker, I didn't mean it like that. It's my fault for being so bloody double-minded about the whole thing. I... I'm being childish, I know.” He shook his head as if to clear it, and then tried and failed to grin at Anders. “Still, if Bethany starts asking questions – and she will – _please_ don't answer them.”

Anders laughed. “My lips are sealed, Ser.” He paused, wondering if he was going to regret this too, but carried on regardless. “You know... _this_ shouldn't go any further, but if you ever want to just talk...” He trailed off, only reassured he'd said the right thing when Garrett's smile became genuine.

“I'd like that. I should really go, though, I don't want Mother to worry.” He blushed, aware how young this made him sound. “Not that I have to ask permission or anything. I'll... see you around.”

“We do live in the same place,” Anders noted, not unkindly.

“Then I imagine I'll be seeing you around shortly.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

Anders found himself hoping that the other man's boots were still there. He knew from experience the walk back to the Keep from Amaranthine (not exactly a brief journey, either) was really quite painful without them.

\- - - 

“What do you think of the Circle?” Anders asked abruptly. They were sitting (a safe distance apart) on a bench in the training courtyard, watching the others spar. (Garrett had already tried out his luck, against his better judgement, foregoing his bow for a pair of daggers – and had rather regretted it. He was quite sure he could _feel_ the bruises blossoming on his skin, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead unpleasantly.)

Garrett considered the question. “I don't like it,” he said finally. “I think it's wrong to take mages away from their families. But...”

“But?”

Garrett, aware this could go very wrong unless he was careful, chose his next words as diplomatically as possible. “With Bethany... our father taught her everything, and it still wasn't always enough. I don't know what we would have done if he hadn't been there. Maybe it would have been kindest to send her to the Circle, then.”

“To a life of never-ending suspicion, the templars watching her every move? Yes, far kinder,” Anders said darkly. “And I dare say it would have been much easier for you, too.” It'd been the wrong thing to say – the air between them seemed suddenly much colder and more tense.

“You honestly think I'm thinking about _myself_ here?” Garrett's voice was laden with angry incredulity. “Yes, I'm sure it _would_ have been easier if every time I left home I wasn't afraid the templars would come take her away – and if they did, not knowing if it'd be to send her to the Circle or murder her outright. Life would have been so _easy_ if I hadn't been told that if 'the worst came to the worst' I'd have to kill my own sister.” He looked down, saw his own shaking hands and tried to calm down. “I don't like the Circle. But protecting my sister comes first.” He sensed more than felt the hand touching his shoulder lightly, and let out a deep breath. “That got a little intense.”

“It's a topic worth being passionate about,” Anders replied, unusually solemn. “I didn't used to care... well, I _did_ , but it was selfish. It was always only about me. Everyone else wasn't as important.”

“But now?”

“I had a friend. He used to tell me it was my duty to free the other mages, that justice must be served. He's dead now. Well, dead-er.”

“I'm sorry,” Garrett said, and then his brow crinkled as Anders' words sank in. “ _Er_?”

“Well, he was already inhabiting a dead body to begin with.”

Garrett froze, trying to figure out if Anders was having him on, but the other man seemed perfectly serious. “Oh. Isn't that a bit... demonic?”

Anders gave a short laugh. “You're lucky he's not around to hear you say that. He got a bit touchy about the whole demons versus spirits topic.”

“So... he was a spirit?” Garrett asked, trying hard not to sound doubtful. Their family had gone to the chantry sermons often enough to avoid suspicion for being godless heathens, if nothing else, and he'd heard about the Maker's first children. On the other hand, he'd also heard his father telling Bethany time and again not to trust anything she met in the Fade, and he knew which of the two he trusted more.

“A spirit of Justice, yes. I still see him in the Fade from time to time.” Anders' lips curled into a wry smile. “I think being stuck there annoys him now, though. He's seen the injustice in the world and can't do anything about it.”

Garrett wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. “He wouldn't try and force his way back in, would he?”

“No! It wasn't even his choice to leave the Fade the first time.” There was a faint mewling by their feet, and in what appeared to be one fluid, instinctive motion Anders had the cat on his lap and was happily stroking it. “Didn't understand pets though, did he, Ser Pounce-a-lot?”

Curiosity that had been mounting ever since he'd first heard the cat's name got the better of him. “Why Ser Pounce-a-lot?”

“It's a good name for a cat.” Anders scratched behind the kitten's ears, pulling the kinds of faces people tended to make while doting on their pets and apparently unaware he was doing so. “Haven't you ever had a pet?”

“I had a mabari,” Garrett said, a little wistfully. “But he was killed by the darkspawn during the Blight. He was called Bones.”

Anders looked torn between sympathy and; quite unfairly, in Garrett's opinion, bursting out laughing. “I see your imagination knows no bounds.” Garrett, rolling his eyes, gestured pointedly towards Anders.

“You have a cat named _Ser Pounce-a-lot_. I don't think you can criticise anyone else's naming skills.”

“Your cruel words have wounded me,” Anders said theatrically. “Ser Pounce-a-lot, defend my honour!”

The cat in question, obviously bored of this – or aware that somewhere in the Keep was someone he could beg for food – stretched (digging his claws into Anders' thigh, judging by the man's wince) and leapt down, his tail waving behind him as he wandered off.

“I love cats,” Anders said fondly, reinforcing Garrett's steadfast belief that anyone who actually liked cats was insane (or at least had severe emotional issues).

They watched Sigrun thrashing a handful of recruits in companionable silence, Garrett wondering absently if he could maybe get her to teach him a few of those tricks, when Anders broke it once more.

“Did you find your boots? You know, after...”

Garrett turned to face him, a little surprised. While they'd certainly spoken to each other since, it was the first time either of them had actually mentioned that night. “Oh, uh, yes. One of the soldiers had picked them up.”

“Oh, that's good.”

“... And vomited in them,” Garrett finished with a shudder. Anders' own face twitched in revulsion.

“Less good.”

“I got Bethany to burn them when I got home.”

“That's probably for the best.”

\- - - 

It had to happen eventually. Anders just wished he'd gotten more warning – one minute he was sat in his room, happily playing with his cat, the next... well, he was still sat in his room playing with his cat, but the door had opened to reveal a worryingly calm Warden-Commander.

“So,” she began lightly, “you and Garrett.”

“We haven't exactly done enough for there to _be_ a me and Garrett,” Anders said cautiously, aware of his Commander's rather terrifying temper when provoked. “And I know what you're about to say.”

“Do you now?”

Anders had to pause at that, but honestly, that was just like her, wasn't it? Now matter how he blustered ahead, it'd leave her the upper hand. He decided not to encourage her. “Just get it over with.”

Solona frowned slightly at having the wind removed from her sails. “Oh, well that's no fun. You're normally better than this.”

“Please accept my humblest apologies,” Anders said, with only a hint of insincerity. Solona just rolled her eyes at him.

“Oh, shut up. This is more about you than him, anyway.”

“Yes, I'd be a little concerned if you were planning on giving him lectures about making an honest man out of me.”

“Oddly enough, honesty is one of the few virtues you do possess,” Solona replied sweetly, smirking as Anders gave her a rude hand gesture in response. “But no. It's just...” She caught his eye, and Anders got the distinct and worrying impression that this was supposed to be an emotional heart-to-heart. “I remember what it was like, at the Circle.”

“It _was_ only about a year ago that you were there,” Anders pointed out.

“It feels longer. Anyway, quit distracting me.” Anders huffed slightly, but said nothing. “My point is...” She fell silent as she considered her next words, and Anders couldn't help but be pleased that Solona Amell was still a fumbling mess when it came to emotional confrontations. It was nice to have constants in his life. “You don't have to be afraid of love any more.”

Anders tried his best not to laugh, he really did. Judging by Solona's irritated expression, he hadn't been entirely successful. “Right, I'll be sure to bear that in mind.”

“I'm serious!”

“I'm sure you are,” Anders said genially, still trying hard not to crack in the face of her _utmost sincerity_. “And I'm sure that one day you'll run off with your Orlesian bard and live out the rest of your days in a beautiful cottage out in the countryside. I just don't quite think that's for me.”

“My Orlesian bard has a name,” Solona muttered under her breath, before continuing. “It's a self-fulfilling prophecy though, isn't it? You don't let anyone see past the surface, so then you don't have to let yourself care about anyone else.”

“Thank you for that brilliant piece of insight.” Anders was surprised to find that he'd really have preferred a lecture on how he must never touch her baby cousin ever again. This conversation was setting his teeth on edge. “I promise, I'll spill my heart out to the next person who asks. Honest.”

“I've had quite enough of people deflecting their feelings with humour,” Solona said testily, sending him a warning look. “Anders – I've known you for years, and I don't even know your _name_!”

“It's part of my mystique.”

“What did I say about the deflecting thing?”

“Sorry, sorry.” He raised his hands in a half-placating, half-protective fashion, lowering them only when it stopped looking like she was seconds away from hitting him.

“I'm not saying that you should settle down with the next person you meet and adopt a dozen kittens,” said Solona, still looking unimpressed at his lack of enthusiasm. “Just that you needn't be so afraid of settling in the first place.”

And that was just condescending coming from a woman several years his junior who'd spent effectively her entire life locked up in a tower. (All right, perhaps he'd spent quite a few years in that tower too, but he'd certainly spent more time out of it.) “I'm sorry, I don't think we've met. I'm Anders, mage and somewhat-wanted apostate. I run away a lot.”

“So I should be expecting to see the back of you sometime soon?” The air seemed to crackle with raw energy, and Anders reminded himself that it really wasn't the best idea to antagonise a woman with both a short temper and a fondness for the more devastating schools of magic.

“No,” he replied, a little wearily. “I like being here. I just... don't want to be trapped.”

“You're not trapped if you choose it for yourself,” Solona said, her eyes oddly soft. “Just remember that.”

Anders nodded, and, aware that the atmosphere was still far too solemn for his liking, tried to lighten the mood. “And here I was thinking you were just going to flay me alive for touching your cousin.”

“Don't think that isn't an appealing idea,” Solona warned him, though with enough of a twinkle in her eye to let him know she was joking. “Although, honestly Anders? He looks like a male me. That's a little creepy, you know.”

“Don't worry,” Anders began, taking a careful step back and out of arms' reach. “He's much more attractive. Also nicer, funnier, more talented...”

“You know, you're saying words, but all I hear is 'oh, please Solona! Let me go along on the next Deep Roads venture! Also you are beautiful and kind. Also I am a huge arse.'”

“Hearing voices in your head isn't healthy. You just probably get that checked out.”

Solona pointed at the door, grinning faintly. “Out with you. And may we never have to have a conversation like this ever again.”

“Yes, you might want to get someone more sensitive. Like, say, _anyone else in the entire Keep_.”

“Out!”

“It's _my_ room!”

Solona tutted, and idly waved a hand. “Small details.”

\- - - 

“So, _Hawke_. I hear you've been making a name for yourself.”

Garrett managed to control his surprise enough to not let the arrow he'd been firing veer dramatically of course, but it still only just managed to hit the target. Lowering his bow, he turned to face Anders, the other man looking rather pleased with himself.

“You, er, heard about that, did you?” he asked, already certain of the answer. Maker's breath, it seemed to be a requirement of everyone at Vigil's Keep to be able to gossip like a fish wife at a moment's notice. “And don't call me that, please. Everyone is. It's getting a little strange.”

“But it rolls off the tongue so well!” Anders laughed, and then raised the cat Garrett was sure hadn't been there a second ago in front of himself protectively as Garrett made to throw his helmet at him. “Hawke. How can you not like that name?”

“I like it just fine,” Garrett said defensively. “But it's annoying Carver, and he already has enough problems with me.”

“Why, what're they calling him?”

“So far I've heard Hawke Junior, Little Hawke and Hawke's-little-brother. I'm not sure which one irritates him the most.”

“I'll have to try them out for myself to find out.” Garrett sighed in a mostly affectionate manner, walking over and giving Ser Pounce-a-lot an idle scratch behind the ears.

“Please don't. He already dislikes you.”

“I'm sure I have no idea why,” Anders said innocently, though unable to keep it up under Hawke's look of deep cynicism and breaking into a grin. “All right, but you have to admit it was funny.”

“That's... mostly irrelevant.”

“Much like this conversation, which you've done a good job of diverting away from the original subject.”

Garrett avoided his gaze. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“You, my friend, are a terrible liar.”

“No,” Garrett replied drily, “I'm a very good liar. People just don't know _when_ I'm lying. That's sort of the point.”

“Oh? When have you lied to me, then?”

“I'll never tell.”

“That's... fair enough actually. Are you never going to tell me what happened the other day, then?”

Garrett groaned and pressed his hand against his forehead, Ser Pounce-a-lot mewling in displeasure at no longer being petted. “I don't see why I should. It's obvious you already know.”

“Maybe I'd like to hear it from you?” Anders' face showed nothing but honest curiosity, and Garrett knew that much as he was already sick and tired of talking about it, he couldn't really refuse Anders anything. (Which was probably why there had been several more _incidents_ since the first, the last of which he couldn't even justify by being drunk. It was making his protests that _they really shouldn't keep doing this_ sound more and more feeble.)

“Fine,” he said, with slightly more exasperation than he really felt. “I was on patrol, there were bandits, I dealt with them.”

Anders looked at him expectantly.

“... And on them there were details that incriminated several minor nobles. They'd been making a tidy profit from letting the bandits do as they please.”

Still that expectant look.

“And there were twenty of them. And a mabari.” People liked to hear about the part with the mabari for some reason.

“And you emerged completely unscathed?”

“Well,” Garrett said awkwardly – it really wasn't in his nature to brag, and he certainly wasn't going to lie to make himself sound better. “I did get an arrow in my shoulder.” He was quite certain he didn't imagine the way Anders appeared to perk up almost imperceptibly at that. “But I got Bethany to patch it up afterwards.” And no, he _was_ certain that Anders looked a little bit less happy about that than he should have been. “Don't do that. I know you just want to get me naked.”

“Ser, you have wounded my honour as a healer!” Anders pretended to sniff haughtily. “Besides, there are other ways to get you undressed. I seem to remember that thing with the lightning worked particularly well...” Garrett let out a strangled noise and checked to make sure no-one was listening in on this conversation, though he couldn't quite cover up his (admittedly quite sheepish) smile.

“Keep that up, and I can promise you the lightning thing won't be so successful next time,” he said, in tones less stern than he'd have liked. It sounded more... teasing, than anything.

“Don't worry, I still have the ice thing and the glyph thing up my sleeve.” Anders waved one arm with a flourish, as if to demonstrate this. “I'm a veritable bag of tricks!”

Garrett laughed, and made to catch Anders' arm – just missing his wrist - and ending up clasping his hand. Anders raised an eyebrow, but did not pull away. To Garrett's surprise, Anders instead laced their fingers, and he was left wondering why this felt somehow more intimate than sex, why Anders thumb felt more forbidden tracing gently across his hand than against his back, his thighs. “Not that I'm complaining,” he said carefully, “but isn't the part where you let go and insist that I'm looking too much into it?”

Anders made a non-committal noise, avoiding his gaze. He didn't let go.

\- - - 

Anders woke with a gasp, feeling as though a hand had just unclenched itself from his throat, bed sheets clinging to him, damp with sweat. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the darkspawn bearing down upon... whatever it was, the inhuman roars echoing around them. Worse yet, he could still _feel_ the faint pulsing by his temples, courtesy of the tainted blood flowing through. The darkspawn were coming. It wasn't time to think about why, or _how_ \--

“Anders!” came Sigrun's voice, accompanied with a thump against the wall. “They're here!”

“I know!” he yelled back, grabbing his loosest set of robes and dragging it over his head, cursing under his breath as he had to fiddle with an awkwardly placed belt. He could hear the clanking in the next room as Sigrun pulled on her own armour, and scanned around the room for where he'd left his staff, snatching it up triumphantly and barrelling out of the door. Around him, his fellow Wardens moved around chaotically, in various states of undress, all of them clutching weapons. He really hoped he wasn't the senior-most Warden amongst them, because if he was meant to restore order...

“Everyone, shut up and calm down!” Solona roared from the end of the corridor, already armed and ready in full-plate, a greatsword hanging on her back by its scabbard. “I swear, keep this up and you do dishonour to us all!”

The Commander had never been much for inspirational speeches, but when she wanted to she could probably intimidate the Maker himself. The woman could _shout_.

“You!” she said, pointing at a pair of Wardens who flinched back in alarm. “Go alert the soldiers, now.”

They scurried off, armour banging loudly against the stone floor and echoing around the Keep.

“We're bringing in the soldiers?” Sigrun asked, emerging from her room, twin axes strapped across her back and glowing faintly with the enchantments placed upon them. “Commander, is that really necess--”

“Don't you sense them?” Solona snapped, drawing on Sigrun with uncharacteristic fury. “How many of them there are?”

Anders and Sigrun both shared a glance as they concentrated, trying to focus the uncomfortable pulsing into something more. Anders let out a hiss through gritted teeth, and Sigrun seemed to instinctively draw for her axes. “Shit,” she said, quite succinctly.

“But where did they--” Anders began.

“-- the attack on the Keep must have disturbed the gates to the Deep Roads,” Nathaniel said, his face an impressive display of calm. “They must have been wearing it down for a while.”

“Maker's blood,” Solona spat, “we didn't even – I didn't even – think to check on it. Stupid. _Stupid_.”

“Commander!” Garevel was marching down the hall purposefully, bowing his head slightly as he approached. “Commander, I've sent the orders for my men to prepare themselves. What do you wish of them?”

“Ranged fighters at the battlements. Have the rest surround the courtyards – don't allow anyone to go into the cellars. My Wardens will be joining them shortly.”

Garevel nodded again, face betraying only the merest hint of uncertainty. “Yes, Commander.”

“Make sure all non-combatants stay out of harm's way and bar the doors.” She grimaced faintly. “We don't have the numbers to spare, but send someone to alert Denerim. If the Keep falls, Amaranthine will be next, and it's all but defenceless now.”

Garevel gave her a brief bow before turning and walking away. Anders could hear him shouting distantly a few moments later.

“And may the Maker preserve us,” Solona said quietly, watching as her Wardens passed, Sigrun and Oghren leading them. She turned to address Anders, Nathaniel, and the mage recruits – the latter of whom were looking fearful. “Don't take any unnecessary risks. We're going to be taking enough damage from the darkspawn without getting it from our own side too. If you see an opportunity, take it, but otherwise focus on small scale attacks.”

“Commander, are you sure I wouldn't be better placed in the courtyard?” Anders asked tersely. For a moment, Solona looked hesitant, but she shook her head.

“For the moment, no. If it reaches the point where you feel the need to get down there... I'll leave that to you. Just remember, you're our only spirit healer. It's more lives than just your own if you go down.” She shot him the briefest of smiles. “No pressure, of course.”

With that, she left them, the Wardens from the Circle still shaking slightly despite the mild night air. Anders willed himself to feel pity rather than irritation, but it was difficult, and he was glad that Nathaniel was the first to speak up.

“Come on,” he said firmly, gesturing towards the stairs that lead up to the battlements.

\- - - 

Garrett didn't know much about darkspawn, he thought, in an almost dreamlike state, firing arrows off, one after the other, face kept blank as they hit their target. He couldn't let himself smile, because if he did he was opening himself up to a lot of other emotions that he'd really rather just ignore for now. He knew they'd killed his father. He knew the Blight had taken everything they'd had from them.

Another arrow, and the darkspawn fell to the ground, its black blood already pooling out underneath it. He knew they died like everything else.

He heard Anders laughing to his left, watched as a group of darkspawn stood paralysed to the spot as a group of fighters swarmed around them, felt the tension in the bowstring ease as he released another arrow.

He saw Solona, looking oddly ethereal (though no, that had to be a trick of the light), taking down wave after wave of darkspawn that stood in her path, saw the _thing_ leap out from the shadows, saw two arrows piercing both its eyes. He didn't know who'd fired the other one.

He watched in horror as Oghren seemed to waver on his feet, surrounded by the darkspawn, heard Anders murmuring, “oh no you don't,” and a flash of green light seemed to illuminate Oghren, who roared and swung his axe around wildly, leaving stumps of flesh where the darkspawn had been.

He felt someone tremble next to him, and tried forcefully to put that out of mind. He couldn't let himself get scared. He _couldn't_.

He saw a flash of lightning pass through a crowd of soldiers, watched them fall to the ground and only some of them get up again.

“Emissary,” Nathaniel growled and aiming his bow towards it. Garrett followed suit, a lucky arrow hitting the thing's neck, and felt himself freeze as it looked up at him, its inky black eyes piercing through him despite the distance between them, and saw it spread its arms wide.

All he could get out was a weak, wheezing protest as what felt like invisible walls pressed down on him, could practically feel his ribs cracking from the spell's force. What was probably only a few seconds felt like an age, and he was only dimly aware of the pressure lifting as his world slipped into darkness.

\- - - 

Garrett awoke with the startling realisation that _everything hurt_. As first thoughts upon waking up went, this was hardly one of the best – he supposed there were worse ones to have, but he was a bit too distracted with his current thoughts to consider possible alternatives. He tried to sit up, and couldn't help but groan miserably as pain spiked its way along his sides and up his back, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“He's awake!” Bethany. She sounded on the verge of tears herself, and Garrett forced his eyes open. The world in front of him was blurred and grey-tinged, and he had a blink a few times before the world righted itself again. Bethany was practically craning over him, Carver and Mother on either side of her. “Don't you ever do that to me again, you bastard!”

“Bethany!” Mother shot her a _look_ , but it seemed to be more of a token effort than anything. Garrett noted how tired his mother looked, and felt a pang of guilt that was quite unwelcome amongst all the rest of his body's protests. “Thank the Maker you're all right.”

“I thought the whole point of being an archer was so that you didn't get hurt,” Carver said, and Garrett couldn't help but appreciate this brief reprieve from Mother and Bethany's concern. He frowned slightly as he took note of the bloodied bandage wrapped around Carver's arm, and tried to point at it – failed, and grimaced as his own arm fell back down by his side.

“How'd _you_ get hurt?” Carver grinned.

“Your brother,” Mother began icily, “decided to go out and join the fighting. I still haven't decided how to punish him for it.” His brother's face fell slightly, but the grin remained.

“Lasted longer than him, though, didn't I?”

“Bet I took out more darkspawn,” Garrett grumbled, because if he _hadn't_ he was never going to hear the end of this, and then he'd be forced to kill Carver, and then he'd never hear the end of that, either. Carver opened his mouth to argue, but Mother cut them both off.

“Boys! I swear, when you two bring out the worst in each other.” Garrett started to laugh, and then instantly regretted it, wheezing as he tried to draw more air in.

“I'm sorry,” Bethany said sympathetically. “Anders did the best he could, but there were too many people that needed healing for him to fix everything with magic. I helped.” She blinked, her eyes suddenly glassy with tears. “Some of them still died.”

“And those are just the ones that weren't killed outright by the darkspawn,” Carver added, his voice suddenly sober. “Poor sods.”

Another wave of guilt washed over him. Over his time at Vigil's Keep, Garrett had gotten to know a number of the soldiers quite well – some well enough for him to count them amongst his friends, and Maker knows he'd always had few enough of them, having to distance himself from the others for his sister's safety. He wondered when exactly he'd become so desensitized that news of their probably deaths only made him feel _sad_ \- it felt so inadequate – and decided it was probably just yet another thing the Blight had taken from him. “Who...?”

Carver shook his head. “I didn't know their names. Nearly all soldiers. I think the Wardens only lost two people in the end, and those were both newer recruits. They were amazing.” Garrett thought that he perhaps didn't like the admiration in Carver's voice, and that this would be something to bring up later. Maybe when he wasn't sure that yelling would make him feel like his lungs had been ripped apart.

“Right,” he said, aware for the first time how exhausted he felt – everything ache or stung or _stabbed_ \- and closed his eyes.

\- - - 

Waking up for the second time was, on the whole, better. He'd gone from everything hurting to _nearly_ everything hurting, and while some people (mentioning no names, Carver) would probably have sniffed at that, Garrett was more than willing to appreciate small mercies. Also, while he loved his family, would defend them to the death (including Carver, though he'd complain about it all the way), and hated the thought of every being parted from any of them, he may have been just the slightest bit more excited to see Anders standing over him. He looked bone-weary, but returned the smile Garrett gave him.

“Glad to see you're okay,” he said.

“I think I'm meant to be the one saying that to you. _I'm_ not the one who got my insides crushed. That was you, just in case you've forgotten.”

“I know. I was there.”

Anders snorted. “Most people probably wouldn't be so blasé about it, you know.”

“Most people probably didn't have such a good healer.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Anders said, rolling his eyes fondly. “And on that subject...” Garrett couldn't stop his breath from hitching as Anders placed his hands on his chest, no matter how gentle he had been, but then all but melted into the touch as a warm glow began to emanate from them. Finally Anders pulled his hands away again, swaying slightly.

“Don't over-exert yourself,” Garrett said guiltily – and Maker, wasn't the world just raining guilt down on him today? Anders just shook his head.

“Don't worry, you're my last patient for today.” There was something behind those words, but Garrett couldn't figure out what. “Just... please don't do that again.”

“What?”Garrett made to sit up, and was relieved to find that his body, while still sore, at least didn't protest as strongly as it had before. He looked up at Anders' face, and found brown eyes boring into his.

“You could have died.”

“I would have thought you'd be used to that kind of--”

“-- Don't,” Anders growled, and if Garrett's back hadn't already been pressed against the wall he'd have recoiled. He'd seen Anders angry before – usually whenever the conversation turned towards templars or the Chantry – but it'd never been directed at him before. Anders seemed to notice, his expression softening considerably. “I'm sorry. This is – it shouldn't be... It's _different_ with you.” His eyes darted towards the doorway.

“Please don't run.” Not that Garrett could actually do anything to stop him if he tried.

“But I'm so good at it.”

“Please.”

The silence felt like an eternity. Finally, Anders nodded, both of them aware of the unspoken _something_ that had gone on between them. Garrett, fighting back the wide grin that was threatening to take over his face, lifted a corner of his bed sheets invitingly – and didn't quite miss the way Anders looked at him as though he were mad.

“You're still injured, and I'm ready to go collapse somewhere.”

“Then how about here?” He met and held Anders' gaze until the other man turned away, sighing, and began to undress. Garrett spotted a new scar by his hip, and wondered briefly if he'd find any new ones of his own later – though all thoughts of this promptly vanished as Anders climbed into bed beside him and, after a moment's tentative pause, felt an arm wrap itself around his waist. He covered it with his hand, lightly holding it in place.

 _Please don't run_.

\- - - 

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” came a sing-song voice – though sung at a considerate whisper. Anders stirred and looked blearily up at the Warden-Commander, pondering why he'd never before noticed what a punchable face that woman had when she was looking smug. Possibly these were thoughts he only had when he was woken up in the early hours of the morning for what seemed to be no good reason.

“This is the make-shift infirmary,” he shot back in a low voice. “Now go away, you're disturbing my patients.”

Solona just smiled beatifically as she gazed around the room, letting her gaze linger on the still sleeping Garrett. “Looks like you've been doing that just fine yourself.”

“I-- we didn't,” Anders said hotly. “We were just sleeping.”

“There are still a few beds free.”

“You are infuriating, sometimes.”

“I know!” said Solona gleefully. “I'm needling you! It's such a delightful change of pace, isn't it?” She suddenly looked thoughtful, her brow creased with something approaching concern. “You're not naked under there, are you? I think I'm well in my rights to punch you if you are.”

Anders scrubbed at his face, trying to wake himself up since apparently the Commander had no intention of leaving any time soon. “I'm in my small clothes, thanks for asking. Anyway, it's not like it's anything you haven't seen before. Remember the Silverite Mine?”

“I _had_ been trying to forget, Anders.”

“I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not. Because you woke me up.”

“I was doing you a favour!” Anders stared at her, but her face showed nothing but honest good intention. Luckily he'd known her long enough to know that didn't mean a thing.

“How is this doing me a favour?”

“Because,” Solona began demurely, pulling a chair over and lounging on it, “what do you think would have happened if _Carver_ had been the one to find you like this?”

“Oh.”

“I imagine it would have gone something like this...” her voice deepened in what was actually a passable impression, “'I am going to punch you in the face now.' And then he would punch you in the face.”

“I don't think he'd actually _announce_ that he was going to--” Anders broke off, distracted by the faint rustling beside him as Garrett shifted, stretched, and opened his eyes. “Good morning.”

There were certain moments too perfect to ever adequately describe. This was probably going to be one of them. Garrett noticed Solona by the side of the bed, and for a couple of seconds seemed paralysed with horror. Then, and without any fuss, slowly wriggled his way further into the bed, until his face was completely hidden by the blanket.

“At least I'm not Carver,” Solona said defensively as Anders shooed her out of the room, trying to coax Garrett out of smothering himself with the bed sheets.

\- - - 

“What would you do to free the mages?”

Garrett, who had been lying on the ground breathing heavily and trying to cool down after a particularly rigorous training session, tilted his head to look up curiously at Anders, wondering exactly where this apparent non-sequitur had come from. “Sorry?”

“To free the mages from the Chantry. From the templars. What would you _do_?”

“I don't really think they'd be inclined to listen to me,” Garrett replied, hoping this would ease the strange tension that had suddenly cropped up between them. Unfortunately, Anders just frowned, his next words without his usual levity.

“They wouldn't _listen_ to anyone. It's beyond that.”

“Anders.” Garrett was growing concerned now. “What are you talking about?”

“Justice.” Anders' brow furrowed, and Garrett was taken aback at how much older it made him look, how world-weary. “I thought I could just sit back and be happy with my own freedom, but...” Anders' breath seemed to hitch, and he slowly exhaled. “I can't. How far should you go?”

“I...” Garrett trailed off. There was a passion behind Anders' words that he couldn't just ignore, that deserved to be given due consideration. “I don't know. What can any one person – a handful of people – do about something that big?”

“How can you say that? Your _cousin_ is a case in point!” Garrett sat up – this was _not_ the kind of conversation to be having whilst lying down – and tried not to get offended at Anders' accusatory tone.

“That was different. No-one is going to protest when someone slays an Archdemon. You _know_ how people feel about mages, Anders.”

“So we should just coddle them, and ignore the fact that mages are denied their rights because of something that happened a thousand years ago?” Anders said scathingly. “Because that's worked out so well for everyone. Apart from the mages, of course, but they don't really _count_ , do they?”

“Maker's breath, Anders, I'm on your side!”

“Are you?” Anders snapped, and Garrett had to fight the churning in his gut telling him to just _back down, this wasn't worth_...

“ _Yes._ ” It came out harsher than he expected, and even Anders looked taken aback. “I've watched my sister grow up ashamed of who she is – I know what would have happened if they'd found her or father. I know I'd have sooner died then let that happen. Don't you _dare_ ever doubt that.”

Anders nodded slowly. “I don't. I...” He let out a wretched sigh, and seemed to let out his previous anger with it. “You didn't deserve that. I'm sorry. It's just...” Anders cast a wary eye around, as if expecting someone to be listening in. “It's Justice.”

“What about it?” Garrett wasn't sure he was quite over his sudden bout of irritation, and some of that probably came across in his voice, but Anders either didn't notice or ignored it.

“Not it, _him_. That fade spirit I told you about, remember?”

Garrett felt a chill run down his spine as he tilted his head, just a fraction.

“I've been talking to him, about the mages. About what we could do.”

 _We_. Garrett tried to keep his voice as calm as he could manage, given the circumstances. “You'd let him _possess_ you?”

“Not possess,” Anders said off-handedly. “It's not like – it wouldn't be like that. It's hard to explain to someone who isn't a mage.”

“Try.”

Anders raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on his bluntness. “It's more of a co-existence. I'm still me, but together we could do so much more than I could alone.”

“How?” Garrett asked, a little desperately, but continued before Anders could respond, “I don't understand. What could you do that you can't do now?”

“He's more power--”

“And how is _that_ any different than making a deal with a demon?”

“Justice _isn't_ a demon. Like I said, I can't explain to a non-mage.”

“So,” Garrett began, hoping he was covering up the little bubble of hysteria he felt bubbling up inside him, “if I went to get Solona, or Bethany, it'd make perfect sense to them, would it?”

“I told you because I thought I could trust you,” Anders said, starting to pace up and down a short stretch of grass. “Because we're... well, whatever we are.”

Garrett covered his face with his hands and just _breathed_ for a few moments, lifting them away again only when he felt Anders' hand on his shoulder. “What did you think I'd say?” he demanded. “What did you want me to say?”

“I don't know.”

“I think you're being an idiot.”

“Yes,” Anders said, his tone oddly light, “I had gathered that much.”

Garrett stared at him, wondering how something so brief could have left him feeling as drained as he did. “You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“No. Something needs to be done.”

Garrett wanted to shout, wanted to scream at him that something could be done without playing host to something from the Fade. “So you're going to... agree to this?”

“I still haven't decided.”

Garrett laughed humourlessly, because it was so _funny_ that the moment his life seemed to be heading towards some semblance of normality (or whatever passed for it in these parts) it had to be ripped away from him, just in case it made him happy or something. “Please tell me when you make up your mind. Until then, we should probably take a break from 'whatever we are'. For both our sakes.”

He hated the look of raw hurt that passed over Anders' face because it mirrored his own and Anders didn't have the right, not when he was the one being so _selfish_ for a bloody noble cause.

“I care about you,” he continued, trying to keep his voice steady, “and I have this thing about losing the people I care about.”

“I told you,” said Anders, looking pained, “ _you're_ not going to lose _me_.”

Garrett just shook his head. “You were right. This shouldn't have gone as far as it did.”

And as he walked away, unsure if he wanted to yell or hit things or cry or do all three at once, he wished he could actually believe that.

\--- 

“Anders,” Solona began as she opened the door to his room. Anders shook his head from his prone position on the bed, holding a book above his head, Ser Pounce-a-lot sprawled across his chest.

“Does nobody knock any more? It's late. What if I'd been otherwise engaged?”

“If the Keep rumour mill is anything to go on, that's no longer an issue.” Her tone was cool, but Anders was a little disconcerted by how she still seemed distracted, as if the small matter she'd threatened to _smash him into little pieces_ over was largely insignificant. “And anyway, shut up. This is important.”

Anders shot her a puzzled look, but laid the book he was reading down on the bed. “You're making me nervous.”

“Well,” Solona said lowly, “I'm not entirely sure that you shouldn't be.” She cleared her throat, and took on her authoritative Warden-Commander voice, the one she used in important situations when she wanted Anders to forget that particular incident at the Circle (and stop _laughing_ , damn it, it happened seven years ago). “I'm leaving.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in (and then another moment for them to make sense), but when they did Anders let out something close to a yelp and shot up from the bed, Ser Pounce-a-lot hissing angrily at this poor treatment as he leapt to the floor. “Please tell me this is some elaborate joke. You could make me a very happy man. I'll even laugh, if you'd like.”

“It's not by choice,” she explained, and didn't that just make everything better. “The Wardens have called me up to Weisshaupt. They were very... firm about it.”

“Home sweet home,” Anders murmured. “Do you know how long for?”

“I have reason to believe it's not going to be a brief visit.” She certainly seemed displeased enough with the situation, but Anders couldn't help the selfish panic building up inside. He wasn't blind or stupid – at least, not on a regular basis – and he knew that the Commander had played a large part in why he hadn't yet been dragged back to the Circle in chains. Of course, Grey Wardens existed outside of the Chantry's authority, but the Chantry had a funny habit of overlooking that when it came to apostates. He also had no illusions about what would happen to him if he was taken back there. A year in solitary (dark and trapped with no-one for company but a cat and his own descent into madness and dark, dark, _dark_ ) would seem like a slap on the wrists by comparison. It was hardly reassuring to see the same concerns reflected in Solona's face, a look so sympathetic it almost hurt to look at. “They're sending someone from Orlais to act as Warden-Commander in my absence. Stroud, I think his name was.”

“Oh,” he said, because he was sure he was meant to say something.

“ _Anders_ ,” and he really wished she didn't sound so fearful because for all that she wasn't anywhere near as funny as she'd like to think she was brave and wonderful and he knew it wasn't herself she was afraid for. “Orlais...”

“Home to the Divine, fervently religious except for when it suits them not to be.”

“Not _all_ of them,” Solona replied, more distracted than defensive, “some are good people, religious or not. It's just,” and here, her face hardened noticeably, “the Chantry has been making demands recently. It's all I can do to refuse them. If this Stroud has Chantry sympathies...”

“I should keep my best running boots nearby, just in case.”

“It could be nothing,” she said, with a frown that suggested even she had difficulty believing her words. “Nevertheless, it's best to be prepared for... unpleasantness.”

“It's what I live for!” Anders replied hollowly, but jerked as a new and somehow much more worrying thought struck him. “What about Bethany?”

“I've arranged for them to move to a house in Amaranthine.” And judging by the slight scowl that flickered across her features, paid a pretty penny for it too. “Obviously she'll – they'll – have to be careful, but she should be as safe there as she was here. If you could carry on with her lessons, I'm sure she'd appreciate it, but-”

“I will,” Anders interrupted, without a second thought. He had been avoiding her a bit recently. Bethany had taken to shooting him dark looks when she thought he wasn't watching, blushing furiously when she realised that he was. He knew that Garrett wouldn't have told her the details behind their... well, he knew that Garrett wouldn't have shared what he'd said, but seeing as apparently the entire Keep was aware that something had happened it would have been ridiculously naïve to assume that Bethany wouldn't be. Still, there remained much that she needed to know for her own safety, especially if she was planning to pursue her healing abilities much further, and Anders wasn't nearly enough of a selfish bastard to refuse her that just because he was feeling uncomfortable.

“You'll have to be careful,” Solona said. “Being caught could end badly for both of you.”

“Oh, you know me. I'm always up for nighttime clandestine meetings,” he said with about as much levity as he could manage, and Solona forced a smile in response.

“If I remember rightly, you got caught most of the time.”

“That's because you only know about the times I got caught, and _that's_ only because the templars enjoyed parading me around afterwards. I always found that a bit weird, to tell the truth, but I suppose it takes all sorts...”

“You're babbling,” Solona told him fondly. “Shut up.”

“Why do I like you again?”

“Because I gave you a cat.”

“I'd ask if my affections are so easily bought, but I think I know the answer to that already.”

Solona grinned, then threw her arms around him. Anders returned it, a little awkwardly, because while the Warden-Commander had a great number of strengths, being openly affectionate was not one of them and it seemed she was aware of this as she awkwardly pulled away. “I'll miss you the most, I promise.” She paused, then made a show of looking thoughtful. “Actually, I think I'll miss Sigrun most. Then maybe Nathaniel. Or possibly Oghren. And obviously, missing my family more is a given. But _then_ you, I promise.”

“Who does that actually leave me as being missed _less_?” Anders asked wryly, because it was easier than actually thinking about what was going to happen. “Garevel?”

“Well, now that you mention it...”

“Ugh. Am I ever so annoying? Wait, don't answer that.”

“Some things are better left unsaid,” Solona agreed. “Like that elephant in the room.”

“And now you've gone and ruined it. Shoo. Begone with you.” He pointed at the door, but lowered his arm as she began to head towards it. “When are you going?”

“Day after tomorrow.” She nodded as Anders let out a quiet groan. “My thoughts exactly. Apparently the bastards that couldn't get down here in time to help with the Blight are quite fond of punctuality. I'll assume no-one's pointed out the irony.”

“I'm not much in the mood for jokes any more,” said Anders, reaching across to cover his face with his pillow. “Though just to be on the safe side – we're _sure_ this Stroud isn't a templar?”

“No,” she admitted. Anders groaned again, this time muffled. Solona leaned over and patted the pillow absent-mindedly, and Anders listened to the clatter of her footsteps as she walked away, the click as she closed the door behind her.

It seemed like an age before he finally fell into an uneasy sleep, the familiar world of the Fade sliding into wavering, green-tinged view. He knew who'd be waiting for him there.

Justice looked just as he first had when they'd come across him in the Fade, though Anders still held the sneaking suspicion that if he lifted up Justice's visor it would be Kristoff's face looking back at him, staring at him through eyes long dead. Not that he was willing to try that. He doubted that Justice would attack him, or even complain, but it seemed disrespectful – and if he was right, it held implications he didn't really want to think about. If he... agreed to Justice's suggestion, whether in thirty or however many years he had left Justice would still be wearing _his_ face.

“Have you decided, Anders?” Anders didn't know if he'd imagined the hint of impatience. He probably had. Time was... flexible in the Fade, and he doubted it made little difference to Justice whether he made his decision then and there or in twenty years' time.

“Not yet.”

“You must free the mages from their oppression.” There was no doubt, no fear, no wavering in Justice's voice, and Anders almost envied him for it. It must be nice to be so sure about everything. “You know that this is your duty.”

“I know,” he said wearily, because whether or not Justice cared or was even aware, he'd heard this in his dreams every night for what felt like an impossibly long time, even while he knew it could only have been a matter of months.

“You cannot sit idle while so many of your kind-”

“I _know_.”

“Together,” Justice said, still in that clear tone of voice that refused the option of arguing, “we can bring justice to all the mages in Thedas.”

“At what cost?” Anders asked, despite having asked so many times before and the answer always being the same. He supposed he just hoped that eventually he'd get an answer that didn't leave him so uneasy.

“Whatever the cost, as long as justice is served.”

\- - - 

Stroud was a pompous bastard, for all that he had an impressive moustache that Anders was secretly a little bit envious of. He had a superiority complex that could probably sustain a dozen pride demons. He had bad breath. He liked to inform them all on a regular basis that Ferelden smelled like wet dog – and while this was essentially true, he wasn't Fereldan and so wasn't _allowed_.

It said a lot, then, that Anders liked Stroud far, far more than he liked Rolan. Stroud didn't dog him everywhere, and Stroud at least had a modicum of respect for his privacy. Stroud also didn't have a nasal voice that made Anders want to punch him repeatedly in the face, though admittedly that couldn't be blamed on the voice alone.

“What's that you've got there?” Rolan asked, and Anders' grip on his letter from Karl tightened, knuckles turning white.

“It's none of your business,” he spat, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. It seemed that nowhere in the Keep was safe save for his own room and he _couldn't_ stay in there all the time. It was too much like being trapped. “And it's none of the Chantry's, either.”

“I'm not sure that's for you to decide.”

“Nor for you.” He stood up, attempting to push his way past Rolan. “You're a Warden now. Try not to forget it.”

“I chose to join the Wardens. That's more that can be said for you, _mage_.” It was almost impressive how much venom Rolan managed to deliver with that one word.

“Yes, I'm sure you joined entirely of your own volition, without _any_ helpful nudging from the Chantry.”

“I joined because my Chantry was destroyed by the darkspawn. The Maker has guided me to this path.”

“You've been practising that, haven't you?” Anders was inwardly thrilled that he seemed to be getting a rise out of the man – it was petty, certainly, but it was about all he could do. “Keep it up and I might actually start believing you.”

“I don't care what you think of me, Anders,” Rolan said, his anger belying his words.

“Oh, and here was me thinking you followed me everywhere because you _liked_ me. I was worrying about how to let you down gently.” For a moment he thought Rolan was going to hit him, but the moment passed and Rolan seemed to calm himself – outwardly, at least – and his breathing settled.

“No, I'm more interested in where you keep going every other night.” Rolan gave him a grin that was all teeth, no warmth behind it. “Do you think that would be the Chantry's business?”

Anders could practically feel the world crawling to a stand-still around him. “I think it's still no-one's business but my own,” he said coolly. It seemed that was enough for Rolan – he _snarled_ and pinned Anders in place against the wall. Anders idly wondered if the templar turned that interesting shade of purple for everyone, or if he was just special.

“What is going on here?” He'd never been more relieved to hear Nathaniel's voice. The man in question was staring at Rolan contemptuously, his expression making it perfectly clear that it was unlikely any answer would satisfy him. Rolan let go of Anders as if burned, and at least had the decency to look embarrassed at being caught out.

“Just a disagreement,” Anders suggested, and Rolan nodded in wide-eyed agreement. Nathaniel looked unconvinced, but gestured towards the door.

“Go,” he told the templar bluntly, and Rolan seemed almost grateful at the reprieve. Nathaniel kept his eyes fixed on Anders until the footsteps died away. “Can I get a real answer now?”

Anders swallowed, unsure if Nathaniel even knew about – but of course he did. Nathaniel seemed to know about all the goings on at Vigil's Keep, even more so in the Commander's absence. “I think he knows about the Hawkes – or knows there's something to know, at least.” Nathaniel just gave a nod of comprehension, and Anders continued: “But I don't know _how_ he could, I've been careful and--”

“There was some talk amongst the soldiers,” Nathaniel said, almost apologetically. “If any of them were very devout, it's possible...”

“That they felt like absolving their sins by giving up an apostate,” Anders finished grimly. “Bastards. I need to go out and tell them.”

“You trust Rolan not to follow you?”

“Not as far as I could throw him. Is there any way you could waylay him or something?”

Nathaniel gave him a rare smile. “I'm sure there is some urgent Grey Warden matter that he must attend to immediately.”

“Thank you,” Anders said with feeling. “I probably don't say this enough, but you're brilliant.”

“Yes, well, it's probably for the best. There's only enough room in here for one of us to be big-headed.”

“I take that back,” he said as he looked out the window, trying to determine whether or not he needed to bring a cloak along. The early evening air seemed pleasant enough, the sky orange-tinged and cloudless. “You've an awful sense of humour. Don't listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.”

“Duly noted.”

\- - - 

As it turned out, he should have brought a cloak, and; as is the way of the universe, he hadn't. The sky was pitch-black by the time he reached Amaranthine, the guardsmen eyeing him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement as he walked past them, shivering. Fortunately it seemed they'd at least been doing their jobs, and Anders wasn't attacked by would-be thieves as he made his way through and knocked on the door of a small but comfortable looking house.

And, because fate clearly wasn't on his side, a bedraggled looking Carver opened the door, squinting at him in the darkness and looking like he'd rather like to slam the door in his face. “This had better be good.”

“Do you think I'd be here at this time of night if it wasn't?” Anders asked through chattering teeth. Carver did not appear to be sympathetic, but let him in nevertheless.

“Anders?” Bethany at least seemed happier to see him than her twin, though Anders supposed that would take a great deal of effort.

“Ser mage?” And thankfully Leandra Hawke appeared to be fully dressed. This conversation would be difficult enough without him being unable to look in her direction.

“Anders will be fine,” he said, a little weakly. “And I'm sorry for coming so late, but--”

“Get on with it,” Carver told him flatly. Garrett was standing behind him now, his expression inscrutable.

“I think the templars might know about Bethany.”

“How?”

“Carver, that's not important.”

“Damned if it isn't!” Carver snapped. “We've been careful.”

“We think,” Anders began, avoiding Garrett's eyes, “that one of the soldiers picked up on it while you were staying at the Keep and told our newest recruit.” His eyes darkened as he turned towards Bethany. “The one I told you about?”

“New recruit?” Garrett asked, looking between them both. Anders shouldn't have been surprised – Bethany had mentioned often enough that she hated having to worry her family.

“A templar.” Anders sighed. “Most likely assigned to keep an eye on me.”

“So this is your fault!”

“Carver!” Bethany and Garrett hissed as one.

“It doesn't matter now,” Anders continued wearily, unsure if he even could deny the accusation. “What's important is getting you away from here.”

“But where can we go?” Bethany looked to be on the verge of tears.

Leandra Hawke cleared her throat, and four pairs of eyes turned towards her. Anders had almost forgotten she was there. “We can go to Kirkwall.”

Oh. Anders really, _really_ hoped he wasn't the only one who could see a problem with that idea, because he was not looking forward to having to quash it.

“Mother,” Garrett said carefully, “Kirkwall isn't exactly the safest place for mages either.”

“I know, but we have family there. A home.” She looked close to tears herself, and Anders had to look away, feeling like he was intruding on something immensely personal. “We don't have much choice left.”

Garrett nodded, slowly. “I should have enough coin to get us passage.”

And that Anders could at least help with. He fumbled slightly with fingers still clumsy from the cold, and withdrew a small drawstring bag that he threw Garrett's way. Garrett caught it with ease and opened it curiously, before letting out an appreciative whistle.

“I think I may have been in the wrong line of work.” Anders shrugged.

“It has its ups and downs. At the moment, mostly downs.”

“Sure you don't want to come with us?” The question itself came out light and breezy, at odds with the intense stare that accompanied it. Anders stared back, because only Garrett would decide that _this_ was an appropriate time to reconcile a relationship.

“The Wardens would miss me,” he said lamely. Perhaps not entirely true – Stroud would probably be happy to see the back of him, and Rolan would only lament that he hadn't managed to capture Anders in some terrible and heretical plot. And maybe throw a fit that Anders had yet again escaped the Chantry's clutches. In fact, it would almost be worth it just for that. Garrett just nodded, and gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“Then I suppose this is goodbye?”

“Garrett, _honestly_.” Leandra's expression took on a stern edge, and it was made suddenly and abundantly clear to Anders exactly which parent Bethany took after. “The poor man's just walked all this way. He should at least try to warm up before setting off again.”

Anders opened his mouth to protest, and closed it again. He suspected this wasn't an argument he was going to win.

\- - - 

“So...” Garrett said, fingers clasped tightly around a mug of hot tea as Anders sipped at his own. “You're looking... well.”

“Not like an abomination, you mean.”

Garrett scowled, but shook his head. “I wasn't going to say that.”

“Just think it, then.”

“Maker, you'd think that given the circumstances you wouldn't be such an arse about this.”

Anders carefully sat the mug down by his feet, because he didn't think it would much help his argument if he ended up scalding himself.

“Don't you see?” he asked, a little more sharply than he had intended. “This is _why_ I'm considering it. For people like your sister! She deserves the same rights as any other man or woman in Thedas.”

“And you need this fade spirit's help to do so. Do you have more of a long-term plan than that?”

“It's... complicated.”

“That's a no, then.”

“That's an 'it's complicated', actually.”

For what seemed to be a lack of anything else to say, Garrett sipped his tea and then screwed up his nose at it. “What's _in_ this?”

Anders blinked. “I was actually hoping that you'd know.”

“It's _foul_.”

“Mm,” Anders agreed, taking another drink of his regardless. It was hot, and he'd drunk far worse before. Compared to darkspawn blood, this was positively palatable – though he'd have to think of better praise than that if Leandra asked his opinion on it.

“Please don't do it.” Garrett took hold of both his shoulders, forcing Anders to look at him, his face open and plaintive. “Anders, _please_. If whatever it was between us meant anything to you, don't do it.”

“That's not fair,” Anders said quietly. He pulled loose from Garrett's grasp, averting his own eyes from Garrett's to avoid whatever it was he'd see there. “You're too bloody idealistic.”

A choked laugh broke out from between Garrett's lips. “Says the one hoping to right a thousand years of wrongs with the aid of a helpful spirit.”

“Yes, I suppose you do have a point there.” It wasn't exactly romantic, so Anders wasn't sure why Garrett took this moment to kiss him. It was hard and desperate and by no means perfect and yet somehow all the better for it, the other man moaning as he responded in kind until they finally broke apart, both of them panting. “Not really the time or place, is it?”

“ _Fuck_ time or place,” Garrett replied with unneeded vitriol, punching Anders lightly on the shoulder at his bemusement. “My mother practically invited you to stay the night.”

“That's... actually a little disturbing.”

“Anders?”

“Yes?”

“Please shut up now.” And as Garrett dragged him towards his room, Anders happily obliged.

Mostly.

\- - - 

“I-I should be the bearer of bad news more often,” Anders gasped, as Garrett began to trail bites along the length of his neck – not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to draw out small keening noises from him. Garrett just pressed their bodies closer together, listening to Anders' heartbeat beneath his and clothes lying haphazardly on the floor of his room. “Maker--” Garrett bit again on a point just above his clavicle and sucked, taking pleasure in the way Anders writhed beneath him.

“Not Maker,” he murmured against Anders' skin, “Garrett. Say that instead.”

“That's a little--” Garrett cut his words short as he ran his hands along the lean lines of Anders' body and began to gently stroke at nipples already peaked and sensitive from the cool air. “Ngh.”

“Articulate.”

“Oh,” Anders muttered, taking a step back from Garrett and lowering himself to his knees, “I'll show _you_ articulate.”

Garrett wanted to say something clever in response, but Anders took him into his mouth and did _something_ with his tongue and all he could do was moan – all the more when he looked down and saw Anders gazing up at him, eyes dark with lust and his cheeks hollowed as he moved up and down Garrett's hardening length. Garrett gripped onto Anders' shoulder with one hand so his knees wouldn't collapse beneath him, the other tangling itself in his hair. Anders hummed as he took him even deeper, and Garrett's grip tightened, leaving faint red scratches along the man's back – and for some reason the sight only increased his want, his need to leave his mark on Anders one last time.

Anders seemed to sense his desperation, and drew away, his mouth deliciously wet and curved upwards in that smirk that did some many things to Garrett it was ridiculously unfair. He sought his revenge the only way he could think of – taking Anders' cock in his hand and stroking, pushing his mouth against it with the faintest hint of teeth and pressing his lips on the tightening skin, revelling in the hitches in breath this drew, the faint whine of “Garrett” that was so soft as to be a whisper.

He stood, their arousals touching with wonderfully sensitive friction and warmth, and Anders burrowed his head against Garrett's neck, the day's beard growth prickly and _perfect_.

“I could take you against the wall...” he said, “you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Anders lifted his head to face him, a challenge in his eye. “Or I could take _you_.”

“I'm stronger.”

“And I can do _this_.” Garrett forced down a whine as a hand impossibly cold trailed its way along the length of his back, leaving behind skin that was almost painful to the lightest of touches, Anders' nails tracing patterns along the length of it, wanted simultaneously for it to end and for Anders to _never stop_.

“Magic is to serve man,” Garrett growled, and Anders snorted even as Garrett lifted him up to change their positions and force him against the wall.

“I didn't know you were into roleplay. If I'd known I'd have brought my shackles.” Garrett eyed him warily.

“You're joking, right?”

“I'll never tell.”

Garrett rolled his eyes but couldn't find it in himself to care as he worked his hands up the length of Anders' thighs, all tense and lean muscle before he reached the curve of Anders' arse and _squeezed_. Anders whimpered and took Garrett's hand, muttering something under his breath until the hand became slick with oil. “Does that spell get used for _anything_ else?” Garrett asked, as wryly as he could manage when his entire body was aching for release.

“Very, very – oh yes _there_ \- rarely.”

Garrett continued to ply the muscle until it relaxed and slowly pushing in, still tight and hot. Their hips rocked as the motion became rhythmic and fluid and more than a little desperate until at last he came with a long, shuddering breath, Anders following suit in one low and rasping moan of “ _Garrett_ ”, spilling himself over Garrett's chest.

They stayed like that, both of them gasping for air as though starved for it before finally pulling apart. Garrett nodded towards a bed really too small for them both, but Anders didn't complain as they settled in, entwined in the other's arms.

“Love you,” he murmured – and then swore as he realised what he'd said. Anders just looked at him through tired eyes and with a nod, pulled him closer and rested his head against Garrett's chest as he drifted to sleep. Garrett watched him, unsure what to make of that reaction and even more uncertain whether he wanted to know, until finally exhaustion overcame him and he too fell asleep.

\- - - 

“Maker,” a voice from the door growled, “some things can't be unseen. You better get cleaned up quickly, otherwise the moment we get on the boat I'm throwing you overboard.”

Anders, not sure he wanted to find out if looks could kill (and well aware that big, sharp swords most definitely could), chose to keep his eyes firmly shut. Judging from the movement beside him, Garrett was less afraid of death by baby brother.

“Oh, like you could throw me overboard.”

Anders wasn't so sure about that – Garrett wasn't scrawny by any means, but he'd seen Carver's arms. (To be fair, everyone had. It wasn't exactly a great secret that Carver felt he had something to prove, and seemed to go about it by showing off his admittedly well-developed biceps at every given opportunity with those shirts he favoured.) Still, pointing this out seemed impolitic, so he remained silent. Garrett, however, seemed to have reached that conclusion for himself, and hastily added: “And anyway, if I drowned it would upset Mother and Bethany. Then I'd be forced to beat you up from beyond the grave for making my mother and baby sister cry.”

Carver grunted, and Anders listened to the heavy thuds as he made his way back out of the room before slamming the door shut behind him.

“You were a great help,” Garrett whispered, giving him a sharp nudge to the ribs, and Anders finally opened his eyes, yawning theatrically. “Oh, don't even try that. You were _smirking_.”

“Maybe I was just having a good dream?” It hadn't been – Justice and darkspawn and Garrett laying unmoving on the ground, soaked in blood and a templar standing over him – but what he didn't know needn't hurt him.

“Mm,” Garrett stretched out languidly. “Do tell.”

“I can't remember the _details_. A dozen naked and oiled down men and women willing to fulfil my every whim and fancy?”

He got an impetuous kick for his troubles.

“Who I promptly refused, because none of them could hold a candle to you?” he tried. This time it was met with a more positive response; Garrett smiled and pressed one hand against his cheek, Anders barely catching himself in time before he rubbed himself against it because _Maker_ , he'd never hear the end of that one.

Or not. He pulled away and tried to figure out where he'd left his clothes – hoping he hadn't had any incidents that could make for a very interesting walk back to the Keep. “You should get ready,” he said. “Boats to Kirkwall are frequent enough, but you really don't want to be lingering about.”

“... Right.” Garrett looked almost like he wanted to protest, but instead got to his feet and threw Anders' robes over towards him. (Well, Anders assumed they were meant to be towards him. He didn't like to think that Garrett had purposely thrown them so they'd hit him in the face.) “Important Grey Warden business to attend to, I'm sure.”

“Oh yes. Vigilance and Deep Roads galore. Probably in the company of my little templar friend, I shouldn't wonder.”

“And they need you there for that, do they?”

“Without my expert healing skills? I dare say they'd get ripped to shreds within minutes. Or have to start carrying around a lot more potions and poultices.”

“ _I_ could make better use of you,” Garrett muttered, and in any other circumstances Anders would have probably started snickering. The man had a habit of being terribly noble and self-sacrificing, and sometimes you could forget how young he actually was – though that abruptly stopped being funny when Anders realised how old that made _him_ sound.

“I don't doubt that. Thing is, though, you can never really leave the Wardens – it's a job for life. So to speak.”

“No Warden outposts in Kirkwall?”

“Not that I'm aware of. And honestly, you'd have to pay me to go to Kirkwall. The templars there...” he trailed off. This was probably not what Garrett would want to hear before escorting his apostate sister there. “But I'm sure you'll be fine. You've got family there, after all.” He wasn't being terribly convincing, he knew.

“I hope so,” Garrett replied, his eyes suddenly looking tired and far too old for his face. “I'm not sure how much more they can take.”

 _They_ , Anders thought. Not we. He wondered who Garrett thought he was fooling. “No chance of you joining the Wardens yourself, then?” He'd meant it as a joke – if a bad one – but Garrett looked suddenly contemplative and that was _not_ a good thing. He wouldn't let Garrett join if it meant knocking him out and throwing him on a boat himself.

“I can't,” Garrett said finally, wrinkling his nose as Anders let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. “What, you don't think I'd make a good Warden?” And all right, Anders didn't enjoy how hurt he sounded but it was far better than imagining Garrett like Mhairi, fierce and enthusiastic and then just _dead_.

“I'm sure you'd make an excellent one,” Anders told him honestly. “I'd just much rather you never, ever did.”

“Well then.”

“Well.”

“I just wanted to--”

“--It's been--”

They looked at each other, so many things unsaid but too difficult to get out and too complex to ever put into words. It was poetic if you were into that sort of thing. _Garrett_ probably was, the sappy bastard. (Not him. Never him, because people like him could never have that, and it was so much easier to believe that he'd never wanted it.)

“Now's the time for tearful farewells, I take it?” Garrett just smiled weakly.

“Not unless you really want.”

“I'll pass, if it's all the same.” Anders didn't know what he was supposed to do. In all other instances like that, it'd been him leaving, and it had been... different. “I... I won't. With Justice, I mean.” The words were out before he'd had time to think, but it seemed right, somehow. Appropriate.

“Thank you.”

“Not that I'm just doing it for you,” Anders protested. “He was always a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, and...”

“I'm going to kiss you now. Please stop talking.” It was light, almost chaste, in stark contrast to their kisses from the night before that had been rough and desperate and Anders was quite sure had left bruises. With that in mind, it really shouldn't have been as _good_ as it was. It was probably some malevolent, roguish trick and that little – was that a _smirk_? It was! It bloody was! - most definitely was.

“... Why couldn't I have met you before I became a Warden?”

“Because we'd have had sex, and then I'd have never seen you again,” Garrett said in tones far too affectionate for the words he was saying and most likely without even a trace of irony.

“Ah, that's true.” Anders cleared his throat, which had begun to feel tight and almost painful. “Garrett... it's been,” he tried again to clear his throat around a lump that just wouldn't budge, “it's been good – no, I'm going about this all wrong, aren't I?”

“I'm not sure there is a right way to do this.”

“Ever the diplomat.”Anders paused, not sure if he should proceed any further, but he'd kick himself forever if he didn't at least ask. “Last night, what you said...”

Garrett looked embarrassed, but said, quite calmly, “I meant it.”

“... Oh.” The Maker was a bastard who played with the hearts of men, clearly. If he'd just had more _time_... “I, I don't know if I can really – I mean, I think I – but it's not as easy as...” Ugh. Anders had always prided himself on his clever tongue, and it was frustrating to have words coming out as stilted and awkward as these.

“It's all right. I think it was for me, more than anything.”

“Narcissist.”

“ _Shut up_. I'll miss you.” Anders wanted to point out that those two phrases didn't generally go together that well, but his still disobedient throat wouldn't let him.

“I'll miss you too,” he croaked out instead. Garrett looked at him with unusually soft eyes, but Anders was quite sure he wasn't the source of the _cooing_ noise, and even more sure he wasn't responsible for the gagging one that followed.

“Apparently my beloved siblings will miss you too,” Garrett muttered testily, shooting the door a filthy look, “and should really work on their eavesdropping skills.”

\- - - 

Reasons to be cheerful: he wasn't dead. He hadn't been captured by templars, even if Rolan had been even more bad-tempered with him the past month or so. He had a cat, who was dozing happily in his bag. He still had Sigrun on his side.

Reasons to be less than cheerful: he was in the Deep Roads – and while these particular Deep Roads were the ones found underneath the Keep, it didn't make them any less Deep. Or Roadly. He had Stroud as a leader, and for all the man's fighting ability he was as likeable and charismatic as that lichen covered rock they'd just walked past. Nathaniel and Oghren had both been sent off on some Wardenly task of one sort or the other. His feet hurt, he was exhausted, he still felt extraordinarily guilty whenever he thought about Justice's parting words - _I did not realise you were still so selfish, mage_ \- and he got the feeling he'd let something (or someone) a little bit wonderful slip through his fingers.

All in all, less than cheerful was winning, and even the cracks Sigrun had made at Rolan's expense had done little to lighten his mood. (Okay, maybe the one about the Revered Mother and the reason why templars had such shiny armour had made him smile, but he'd quickly returned to sullen after Rolan began his diatribe on why such jokes were _inappropriate_ and _disrespectful_.)

Oh, and the darkspawn. The darkspawn weren't good either, particularly when a group of genlocks decided to strike from the shadows and his cat leapt out of his pack to his defence. Not that Ser Pounce-a-lot's efforts weren't touching, but Anders suspected he probably came out of that the worse for wear for Pounce's intervention.

“That cat is ridiculous,” Stroud informed him as Anders made to patch himself up – not as thoroughly as he'd have liked, but it was important they didn't _linger_. The darkspawn might get bored, or something. “You cannot keep such an animal down here.”

“He's been down here before,” Anders pointed out, Sigrun nodding her support. (Lovely girl, except for when she wasn't.)

Stroud did not seem impressed, and shook his head. (His moustache quivered when he did that, Anders noticed.) “It is a risk to us all. When we return to the Keep, I insist you give him to the servants. I daresay they could make use of a mouser.”

Rolan snorted, but Anders was more concerned with the more immediate offence. “You want me to give up my _cat_ ,” he said icily. “A gift from the Warden-Commander.”

“Bet she regretted that,” Rolan muttered.

“The Warden-Commander is not here, Anders. I am.” Stroud was getting angry now, but Anders couldn't quite bring himself to care. “What I say goes.”

And with that, the balance shifted, a light flickered and suddenly everything made perfect, brilliant sense. Maybe you couldn't _really_ leave the Wardens, but more-or-less leaving the Wardens sounded good enough to him. “And on that note, so am I. Going, I mean. That sounded better in my head.”

“What?” Anders would have liked to frame that moment and treasure it always; the way both Rolan and Stroud's eyes seemed to bulge alarmingly, mouths dropping open in surprise. He could look back on it when he was old and grey and smile fondly at the memory.

“I'm leaving, _Acting Commander_. Me and my cat.”

“You can't just _leave_ \--”

“Are you going to chase me? I warn you, I'm good at running.” He beamed at Rolan. “As he knows well, I'm sure.”

Stroud growled, but shook his head in disgust, turning away. Rolan, however, seemed less willing to give up. “He is a wanted apostate! Without the Wardens' protection, he must be brought to justice!”

Anders opened his mouth, but it was Sigrun who spoke up. “We're here to fight darkspawn, _brother_. If you've decided you'd rather hunt Wardens, then you're on the wrong side.” She swung an axe around loftily with one hand. “And if you're on the wrong side, I might have to cut you off at your kneecaps. Just saying.”

Anders could have kissed her, he honestly could – if he didn't suspect that could endanger his own knees and he was really quite fond of being able to walk.

“Enough.” Stroud sounded weary now. “Go, if you wish. I can see that this will be far more trouble than you are worth.”

And that wasn't exactly nice to hear, but it was as close to permission as he was ever likely to get. “Say goodbye to the others for me!” he called to Sigrun, who gave him a lazy salute in return. “Oh, and Rolan. Dear, sweet Rolan.”

Rolan took a step back, clearly unnerved by his tone. Anders grinned.

It wasn't a good punch; the sort that left the other person lying on the floor for an hour afterwards, the yelp he got more likely due to surprise than pain, but it was _immensely_ satisfying. “Give the chantry my regards.”

\- - - 

Kirkwall was not all it was cracked up to be – by which he meant that it was _exactly_ what it was cracked up to be. He'd spent as much time on deck as possible, but as they passed the Gallows the hold became swiftly very appealing indeed. The Circle in Ferelden at least made the effort to pretend it wasn't a prison, and have statues of _slaves_ as part of the décor. It was all very subtle.

Even better, his attempts at blending into the crowd had been ridiculously unsuccessful. Anders had been at the docks for perhaps five minutes before he heard the screams. A small part of him had wanted to run as far away from that noise as possible, but that part had been quickly overwhelmed by the need to help. He'd been a healer for too long, and the people he'd associated with were nothing but bad influences out to compromise his sense of self-preservation.

And of course, once you healed someone you didn't know it could go two ways – either they ran for the nearest templar, or you suddenly made a lot of new friends who also needed healing. He was probably lucky they'd gone for the second option, but that didn't make it any less exhausting work. It'd gotten worse – eventually a woman named Lirene had introduced herself to him, made a heartfelt plea and somehow he'd ended up in some ramshackle building in a place called _Darktown_ treating a variety of revolting looking diseases and injuries.

And Maker help him, he was actually finding it _rewarding_. Some people had a lot to answer for.

Unfortunately, a lot more people didn't and Anders was barely aware that he hadn't yet had a chance to look for the _very person he'd come to this Maker forsaken city for_ until two days after his arrival – and no-one he'd asked seemed to have any more idea than he did. In retrospect, it wasn't his best thought out plan. (That had involved secret passages that didn't exist, a few craftily penned letters that had created some very interesting conflicts between the templars and, oddly enough, a set of robes that had once belonged to someone much smaller and also _female_.)

“Never heard of him,” Lirene had said apologetically. “But I'll ask around, if you like.”

That had been a few days ago, and still nothing. Anders had done as much searching as he could himself by night – or late evening, rather, he wasn't quite so much a brazen idiot as to go wandering around Kirkwall at night by himself – but felt obliged to remain in what was quickly becoming _his_ clinic during the day. Even with the Blight over, the Fereldan refugees were living in the kinds of squalor that practically invited sickness, and they were all so grateful it bordered on the overwhelming. All of them had promised to hide him from the templars, and while he wasn't sure how long that sort of gratitude would last it was still reassuring to hear.

He had, however, made sure to keep Ser Pounce-a-lot out of sight after he'd spotted more than a few patients eyeing the cat hungrily. He suspected he'd have a good deal less sympathy for his fellow man if they ate his pet, and would probably show this in the form of _setting them on fire_.

“You miss him, don't you?” Anders asked Ser Pounce-a-lot one evening, scratching the cat idly behind his ear. To be honest, Ser Pounce-a-lot probably missed saucers of fresh milk and Anders' old bed more, but it was easier to project onto the cat than dealing with his own feelings. Possibly not the healthiest approach in the world, but if anyone was listening in on him now odds were he had larger problems than that person thinking he was mad.

\- - - 

The Hanged Man was not the finest establishment. This was being polite. If he was being _truthful_ , the Hanged Man was an utter disgrace of a tavern that served drinks that would only be seen as fit for consumption if the person was pissed to begin with.

Judging by the usual patrons, this was probably a fair guess, and it was for this reason that Anders had not taken his search there before – Garrett appreciated a drink as much as the next person, and any person that _appreciated_ drinks would do well to stay as far away from the Hanged Man as humanely possible. On the other hand, it appeared he had lowered his standards.

“I hear you're looking for Hawke?” Anders eyed the stranger warily. He was obviously a dwarf, but in Anders' (admittedly limited) experience dwarves either had beards or were female, and while Anders wasn't a fan of leaping to conclusions the dwarf had far more chest hair than any woman he'd yet come across.

“Yes,” he said carefully, taking a sip of his drink and immediately regretting it.

“Tall, a bit gangly, dark hair?” Anders nodded, trying not to look too enthusiastic. In this place, like all the others like it, there was always a possibility you were being played for a fool. Plus, who knew that there weren't a plethora of tall, dark-haired Hawkes wandering around the place?

“Stubble, bit of a crooked nose, eyes you could get lost forever in?” The dwarf simpered a little at the last part before grinning at Anders, who just rolled his eyes.

“It's not _that_ crooked,” he retorted, a little crossly because he happened to _like_ that nose rather a lot. It added character.

“Too damned kind and noble for his own good? Standing right behind you?”

He couldn't help it; Anders turned sharply in his seat to stare at the doorway. There was no-one there. He turned back to face the dwarf with a glare, but the dwarf just laughed and raised his mug cheerily.

“Just shitting you, Blondie. But by the way, _now_ he's standing right behind you.”

“Oh, like I'm going to--”

“ _Anders_?”

“Name's Varric Tethras,” said the dwarf, extending a hand lazily. “At your service.”

\- - - 

“So... I'm assuming this _isn't_ your family.”

Not that that wouldn't make a certain amount of sense. It would at least explain how someone like the Warden-Commander came to be. They'd been joined by two elves, a guardswoman and another woman who looked bizarrely familiar, thought Anders couldn't for the life of him figure out from where.

“Good guess,” Garrett said brightly, extending a hand around the table. “Merrill, Fenris, Aveline, Isabela, and you already met Varric.”

The others nodded at him with varying degrees of amiability – save for Fenris, who was looking as if he'd really rather kill Anders there and then and be done with it. Garrett, to his credit, seemed to notice and looked sheepishly between the two of them. “Fenris doesn't care much for mages. To, er, put it mildly.”

“Does the glaring ever stop?” Maybe not the best thing to say to one of Garrett's new friends, but after a week of spending his time quite selflessly _helping_ people with his magic he was feeling a little unsympathetic to anti-mage sentiment.

“No,” Merrill beamed – and wasn't she a rather adorable little ray of sunshine. “But you get used to it.”

“Oh, you're a... ah.”

“Yes, she's an ah,” said Garrett, with a slight nod Merrill's way. “But back to the topic of family – mine proved to be... somewhat underwhelming.” His face, which had been set in a wide smile all evening, seemed to fall slightly and his eyes narrowed. “Turns out my uncle went and lost our family estate, so we're staying at a _lovely_ place in Lowtown at the moment.”

“Tell me about it. I've been staying at... what is it?” Garrett was staring at him, wide-eyed.

“How long have you been in Kirkwall?”

Anders shrugged. “A week or so.”

“ _What_? How've you not – I've been _everywhere_ in Kirkwall.”

“And he drags us along with him,” Isabela sighed, before winking at Garrett and leaving Anders to fight the bizarre impulse to scowl at her.

“I've, ah, got a clinic. In Darktown.”

“That's _you_?” said Aveline mildly, and Anders did not miss the note of surprise. He couldn't begrudge her for it, though. Only a matter of months ago, he'd be considerably more surprised if someone had suggested it, and would most likely have expressed said surprise through some fairly colourful language.

Garrett, meanwhile, looked at him as though he had grown a second head, and quite possibly a very _stupid_ head at that. “So you come to a city filled with templars and then go and set up a _clinic_. For healing people.”

“With magic,” Anders said helpfully, because Garrett seemed to be having some difficulty with this.

“You're an idiot. Wonderful, but an idiot.”

“You wouldn't be the first to say so. Well, not so much the wonderful part, that's new – and feel free to keep saying that. It does my ego the world of good.”

“I'll stop right now for everyone's safety, then,” Garrett said happily, earning snickers from Varric and Isabela and an expression of good-natured confusion from Merrill. Anders sniffed haughtily, and brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. To be honest, it was just a _little_ bit creepy how quickly Garrett's gaze flickered over to it. “Your earring!”

“I had to sell it for passage over here.” It was sad to see it go – that earring had been a symbol of lazy defiance and had more than a little in the way of sentimental value, but when it came down to it it had hardly seemed like a decision at all.

“So not only were you not paid to come here, you paid someone else to take you here?” Anders frowned slightly – he knew it was romantic at best, slightly pathetic at worst, but he wasn't sure he really wanted it pointing out in front of people he didn't know. (Or, for that matter, people he did know.) On the other hand, Garrett was staring at him in a way that made him feel _feelings_ and he decided he didn't actually give a damn what anyone else thought.

It seemed that none of them cared enough to comment either, though Isabela was still fixing him with an appraising eye. “I've got it! I've slept with you, haven't I?”

\- - - 

“It was years ago, I swear!” Well, it was probably only just over a year and a half ago, but Anders felt he was well within his rights to round up. Isabela, apparently aware that she'd made some kind of faux-pas, had attempted to fix matters the best she could – and this had somehow meant buying them a room at the Hanged Man. A thoughtful gesture that would be infinitely more appreciated if Garrett could remember how to speak.

“I don't _mind_ ,” he said finally, though the pause had been long enough that Anders felt within his rights to snort. “It's just... surprising. It was weird enough when she said she'd slept with my cousin.”

“I thought she was with...?”

“Oh, yes. Apparently both. At the same time.” Garrett whimpered slightly, and Anders didn't entirely understand that response but assumed he'd probably feel a bit different if he was related to one of the women in question.

“I swear,” he began solemnly, “I will never make you participate in a lesbian threesome unless you really, really want to.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“Oh, these things you say to me. You know you'd absolutely hate it if I ever did.”

“And I'm never likely to find out, either,” Garrett said drily.

“Such cruel, cruel words.” Garrett just smiled, and leaned over, resting his head on Anders' shoulder. It wasn't an ideal position – Garrett was taller and Anders suspected his shoulder was a bit too bony to be comfortable, but still. It was... nice.

“Is this the point where I get a theatrical confession of love from you, then?”

“Don't actions speak louder than words?” Anders asked.

“Mm. Doesn't mean I don't want to hear the words too.”

“Oh, well then. I've got words I've been practising for _years_.” Anders cleared his throat. “For months I have lain awake, aching for you. I-- stop laughing!” He couldn't actually see Garrett's face burrowed against his neck, but his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably and he suspected that his romantic words hadn't driven the other man to tears.

“You're _serious_ ,” Garrett finally choked out, and there actually _were_ tears of mirth in his eyes now. “You've genuinely been practising _that_. Maker's breath, you're worse than Mother's stories.”

“So's your face,” Anders shot back. This had the opposite effect to what he'd have liked, and Garrett just dissolved into fresh peals of laughter. “Look, I said that actions spoke louder than words, didn't I?”

“But,” Garrett began, still spluttering every so often, “I doubt you _woo_ people with that. You'd be a good deal lonelier if that were the case.”

“Yes, well. It's harder when you actually want to mean what you're saying,” Anders muttered irritably. “It's not so hard to dress up 'I think you look nice, do you want to have sex?'”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” said Garrett, softly this time. “Even if I've discovered a romantic side to you I'd probably have been better off not knowing about. Actually, scratch that – a romantic side _you_ would have been better off _me_ not knowing about.”

“And here I thought you were nice.” Garrett looked away innocently.

“Perhaps it's all part of a cunning disguise to lure attractive, unwitting apostates into my bed.”

“You know what? At long last, I see the family resemblance between you and your cousin. And it is terrifying, by the way.”

“I love you too,” Garrett murmured as he leaned in for a kiss.

After all, actions spoke louder than words ever could.


End file.
